I'm Alone: Exalt
by AmbroseVox
Summary: An elite task force's leader and prized Marine are behind bars and under investigation. While the prisoners grapple with themselves, their comrades struggle to discover the truth. Even if their names are cleared, a rift is growing between the crew of the I'm Alone, waiting in orbit. Operation: Exalt looms ahead and the only chance of success falls on the unity of its crew.
1. Chapter 1: Rain

Chapter 1: Rain

* * *

Far outside the limits of Lionel City, at the junction of a severely underdeveloped neighborhood, was a lonely bus stop. Unlike mag-lev stations, highway checkpoints, or other terminals that linked vast transport networks, this stop could have been mistaken for something built many centuries ago.

It was one simple bench seated within an open-faced shed just deep enough to contain it. Both sides were slim and constructed of fiberglass. The solid, rear wall they were connected to was made of steel. Graffiti tags covered the glass and the wall. As for the roof, it was of a half semicircular shape; if one turned it upside down it could have made an excellent pig trough. Two long, thin, horizontal white light bulbs ran through it.

Just to the right of the shed was a tall street lamp with a similar white bulb, casting a stark glow across the junction. On the other side was an advertisement board, about the size of two small crates stacked atop one another, flashing different commercials. One showed a clean-shaven, toothy smiling, well-dressed business type offering loan options for homeowners. Another was a propaganda reel of handsome men and women in uniform saluting the camera. Finally, the city Superintendent green icon appeared and the speakers chimed, 'Keep it clean!'

There was no sidewalk and the road was not paved. The bus stop sat on a patch of cleared soil adjacent to the dirt road. High grass encroached among the roadways and the few buildings there were.

It was very dark. None of the houses' lights were on. Most of the other street lamps stopped working years ago. The wind was picking up, causing the grass to sway in the light of the lamp and the advertisement board. Cold rain fell, filling pebble-brimming pot-holes with muddy water. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Trudging out of the darkness, Vivian Waters approached the bus stop. Her hands were jammed into the pockets of her hoodie and her hood was pulled down very tightly. Grass and mud stains covered her jeans, hoodie, and sneakers. All her clothes were soaked and heavy.

A gust of wind struck her. She gritted her teeth and breathed in shakily. Her bottom lip trembled.

When she got into the shed, she sat in the center of the plastic, orange bench. It was uncomfortable and dirty with dried gum, cigarette butts, half-eaten fast-food, candy bar wrappers, empty syringes, and a bloody condom.

Vivian squeezed her legs together, pressed her arms against her sides tightly, and kept her hands in her pockets, attempting to remain as small as possible. Looking down at the ground, she silently hoped the bus would arrive soon.

The wind blew the grass over, made the faraway forest swirl like ocean water, and tousled her blonde locks falling out of the hood. Looking up, her teeth chattered as gust after gust buffeted the shed and swirled within its tight walls. Again, she curled up as best she could. But she was soaked through and was shivering terribly.

Her hands were so cold they hurt. Reluctantly, Vivian slid them out of her pockets, brought them close to her mouth, and breathed on them. Even though they were so close, the wind snatched her warm breath away. Wincing, she took the fingers of her left hand, stuck the tips into her mouth, and breathed on them. It helped only a little. When she started to bring her other hand over, she hesitated. Most of her palm and her fingers were stained a sickly brownish color. Examining her opposite hand, it was covered in the same substance.

Staring at the dried blood, she could have vomited then.

Controlling the urge, she got to her feet and walked to the dirt road. Right in the middle was a muddy puddle. Earlier, she stopped to dunk her shoes in another puddle to get the blood off. Crouching down, she dipped both hands into the water. The water was so cold she hissed from the pain. But Vivian gritted her teeth and began running her hands over each other. At first, her freezing hands moved slowly and methodically. Moments later, she was frantically running the water of them and trying to scrub the blood off.

She wanted it off, off, off!

Finally, after bringing them up out of the water and wiping them on her pants, she saw they were clean. Gone were the brown stains that seemed to coat every crack on her palm. Again, Vivian brought her hands to her mouth and breathed on them until they were tolerably warm. Rubbing them together, she stuck them back into her pockets. Before she stood, she took one looked around at the dirt road, the scattered homes, ramshackle buildings, and the lonely bus stop. It was all too familiar to her.

There were many places like this around the city. When colonization first began, city planners envisioned a metropolis stretching all the way from the coast and across the plains right up to the mountains. A superhighway, connecting the titanium mines right to the shipyards, would see Lionel City prosper. At first, it seemed like that prosperity would become reality. Railways and paved roads began to link the settlements together and criss-crossed the great plains between the ocean and the forested mountains. City after city rose, becoming more dense, populous, and prosperous. But it wasn't to last, at least for Lionel City.

Poor budgeting, misuse of resources, construction accidents, and not a small amount of bureaucratic corruption saw only the coastal portion of the city built. Some developments were started on the outskirts of the city, but many of these were abandoned. Outside the glistening urban center were many dilapidated apartment complexes, empty parks, and ramshackle homes. Besides squatters and rebel cells, only a few working citizens were able to live out there. Too poor for their own vehicles, a petition for public transit was pushed through and they were granted this bus stop.

For kids, they were isolated places away from adults to romp through. Teenagers liked to go there to smoke, inhale, or inject whatever drug was running through the black market. Others went there to lose their virginity. Younger kids enjoyed the crumbling structures for their mystique and the games of pretend they came up with.

During her youth, Vivian and her friends ran through this very spot and other ones too. Their favorite was the apartment complex a few kilometers to the west. They were still there.

Kneeling in the muddy road, soaked to the bone, and so cold she was shaking like a leaf, Vivian began to cry. Reality came crashing down and it was absolutely unbearable.

Even after the soldiers were gone, she hesitated to come out. She was more scared of seeing the bodies of her friends than getting shot. When she did push the pantry door open, she crawled over to the nearest body and rested her hands on it. Whatever made Roseanne who she was gone. Before her was a broken, twisted, shattered lump of bleeding flesh. There was no light in her eyes and no expression in her frozen face.

Vivian had shaken her, to see if there was any life within her still. A vain hope, she knew it was. Blood came from so many bullet holes and leaked from the puncture in her throat.

She was gone. They were all gone. But Vivian went to each body; Joanna, Carla, Andrea, and Willow. Torn apart by bullets, their faces suspended in agony and fear. Despite their locked features, there was nothing. Nothing in their faces, nothing in their eyes, nothing.

Nothing.

Too scared and too wracked with grief, Vivian left. What else could she do? Each room she passed was filled with dead people. Insurrectionist bodies mingled with that of their fresh recruits. Three in one room, over a dozen in another. The entire building reeked of gunpowder and blood. By the time she got halfway down, she was running. She needed to get away.

When she finally came outside, it seemed so much darker than it did before. In the distance, she could hear shooting. Looking to the hilly woods, she saw white beams of lights and yellow muzzle flashes. It was as if she was in a dream. Maybe that's all it was, a dream, a terrible nightmare.

But she knew it wasn't. Making sure no one was around, she waited until she was out from the complex. When she was out, she stopped at the corner of a crumbling compound, checked around the corner to make sure no one followed her, and then walked all the way to the nearest bus stop. Throughout the entire affair, she had shed her tears silently.

Only now, with the blood washed off her hands, did she weep aloud. She sobbed so hard her entire body shook. Were it not for the raging wind, sweeping leaves across the road, her wailing would have woken up the few inhabitants of the burb. Long and loud, she wept and wept.

Eventually, she cried herself out. There was no more air in her lungs, no more tears left in her eyes. For a long while, she knelt their limply. But when the wind thrashed hard enough to spill some of the muddy puddle water on her knees, she automatically got back up. Trudging back over to the bus stop shelter, she sat back down and made herself small once more.

This time, however, she did not bury her face in her knees. Instead, she gazed out at the uncompleted world before her.

Once, this place was the dream of some starry-eyed colonial officer in charge of development. This is what their dreams amounted to now; some ramshackle houses, unoccupied ruins, and skeletal buildings that lacked roofs or walls. Did the death of their dream break their hearts? Or were they so deep in their cushy, gaudy life they could care less? What were dreams compared to riches, after all? Perhaps they embezzled some of the funds meant to build homes for the citizens arriving her.

Skopje was no dream. It was another building block for the UNSC. A world rich with minerals that were harvested, refined, and used to build more ships for the Navy. With more ships, the Navy would traverse the galaxy even further and colonize another planet. They would funnel manpower and resources into it, harvest the minerals, and build more ships and cities. That was the idea before the Covenant arrived, anyways.

When citizens thought of the UNSC, they thought of stalwart men and women in green BDU's, standing with rifles in hand, ready to die for humanity. They thought of the glittering starships tearing through space, discovering new worlds and bringing humanity to the furthest stars. Despite her disdain, that's how she used to see them. Now, staring at the ruins, with the blood off her hands, Vivian saw only sinister corporate men with boogeymen soldiers at their beck and call.

Never forget. Never would she forget, nor would she forgive, the atrocity.

An engine coughed and roared. Vivian looked down the road towards the city. A pair of bright headlights grew larger. When they came close, they blinded her and Vivian raised her hand to shield her eyes. The engine's rumbling grew louder and louder until it drowned out the wind. Brakes squealed and axles moaned. There was a rush of air.

Lowering her hand, Vivian saw an open door. Getting up, she walked to the bus entrance and looked up the steps. Sitting at the wheel was a middle-aged fellow dressed in a blue uniform complemented by a black tie and white undershirt. His blue cap was sitting on his dark raincoat beside him. Stubble was growing on his chin and there were dark bags under his eyes.

"Getting on or what, kid?" he asked.

Vivian slowly came up the steps, gripping the railing as she did. Taking out her bus pass, she placed the card over the pedestal beside the driver. A second passed and the word 'ACCEPTED,' appeared on the blue screen. Underneath was a message that five credits were deducted from her account. Then, the Superintendent icon appeared again, uttering, 'Thank you for utilizing public transit!' Vivian ignored it and walked up.

When she got into the center aisle, she saw the entire bus was empty. Taking a few steps, she sat in the fifth row opposite from the driver's side. It was a single-seat by the center entryway.

For a moment, she looked out the window, then slowly looked forward. She could see the glaring eyes of the driver in the rear-view mirror. After a few moments, his eyes softened and he sighed. "Where do ya wanna go, kid? I'll take ya straight there. Not like anybody's out here tonight, anyways."

"75th Street, Lionel City Service Apartments."

"Fine."

He took his foot off the brakes and the bus roared to life. It trundled down the road a little until it reached a wide culdesac. After traversing it, the bus began the journey back to the city.

It was brightly lit and warm inside the bus, so Vivian removed her hood and unzipped the hoodie. Leaning back in the seat, she gazed out the window again. The landscape seemed so much darker now. Rain ran down the glass, obscuring what little she could make out. Eventually, she turned her gaze forward and looked through the massive windshield. Through the windshield wipers, she could see Lionel City proper, its many skyscrapers and high-rises bedazzled with hundreds of white, yellow, red, and green lights. Not far beyond the center, she could see the gigantic cranes of the shipyard, lifting and lowering pieces of titanium plates used on warships.

Her eyes glanced at the rear-view mirror again. There, she found the driver's exhausted eyes. His went back to the road. "What the hell is a kid like you doing out here on a night like this, huh?"

"I..." Vivian began. "...just needed to get away from home for a little while."

The driver snorted.

"Sister, I've worn your shoes before. Been hopping from colony to colony just to stay outta the UNSC's hair. Buuuut they always find a way. They get you eventually. Now, look at me."

That was all he said as the bus entered the suburbs that made up the outer ring of Lionel City. Streets were lined with cookie-cutter houses with lush grassy lawns and flower-filled gardens. Most neighborhoods were dark, save for the warm yellow glow of porch bulbs or the dull orange haze from street lights. Windows were dark, but occasionally one could see someone staying up late, watching television or indulging in a midnight snack.

It was as if there was no war. It was as if there was no Insurrection. It was as if there were no uniformed men storming across the planet killing people.

Sometimes, when Vivian truly needed to be by herself, she took the long walk from the inner city to stroll through these neighborhoods. Sometimes, the center became too overwhelming. Constants streams of vehicles, high-speed mag-lev trains, construction, car accidents, and the endless throngs of pedestrians marching back and forth assaulted her senses. So, as soon as she came home she would complete her homework as quickly as possible. If there was still light by the time she was done, she grabbed her music player, put in her earphones, and began walking. Going among the public gardens was not enough, there was still too many people.

Middle-class neighborhoods were peaceful no matter the time of day. The majority were still at work by the time she took her stroll. A number of young children would be getting out of school at the time and the yellow buses would be dropping them off. Otherwise, it was quiet. Birds chirped and fluttered from bush to tree. Occasionally, a pet dog would come to the fence and wag its tail. Others basked in the fading warmth of day before being let back inside.

Almost year round, the hundreds of flowerbeds permeated the air with an array of sweet fragrances. In the brief summertime, the air was thick with so many scents. Every time she found a quiet bench, she would sit, open a book, and inhale deeply. It was impossible not to take it all in. Even at night, these calm streets were so beautiful.

Part of her imagined she could own a home here, one day in the far future. At least she used to. Now, she just wanted to get away.

The bus rolled through and soon they were in the city proper. Through the rainy windows, she looked at the city. Red, yellow, green, orange, and white lights illuminated the streets. Each one looked strange and unnatural through the water streaming down the windows. A number of cars were passing by, carrying those destined for the graveyard shift. It was very late and not many pedestrians were outside. But many bars and restaurants were brightly lit and packed with people.

They were late-night party goers mostly; Vivian saw enough of them during her late-afternoon commute from school. Young adults, children of the city's elite, taking mommy and daddy's credit chits to booze, dope, dance, and fornicate until the sun rose. 60th Street was home to the Titanium Club, an eighty-story skyscraper filled with nightclubs that catered exclusively to the members of the shipbuilding corporation that practically ran half the commerce and industry on the planet. Most of the members were actually too busy to visit, so it was their families who capitalized on it.

She hated passing through it. Seeing all the primped women and suave men strut without a care in the world sparked anger in her chest, even before this night. Now, her fury intensified. Looking at them, giggling and shrieking in the rain, hurrying to cross streets and get under canopies, she could not help but grit her teeth and glare.

Eventually, the bus passed through the district and it was not long before it came to a halt by the bus stop closest to her home. The engine wheezed and the doors hissed open.

Slowly, Vivian went to her feet.

"Thanks," she said to the driver, who didn't respond. Instead of going towards the front, she turned to go through the main exit on the passenger side. She took hold of the metal bar and descended a step.

"Hey."

Vivian looked up at the rear-view mirror. She saw the driver's eyes in it. "Come here."

She didn't move. This time he waved his hand. "I said come here."

Reluctantly, she let go of the vertical bar and approached. When she was right beside him, he held out his hand. "Give me your bus pass."

"I already paid."

"Give it to me."

She reached into her pocket, pulled out the small, flat card, and gave it to him. Examining it for a moment, he reached over to the boarding pedestal. He tapped a few keys underneath the screen and then held the card over the scanner. When he did, the sleeve of his organization jacket pulled back slightly. His wrist was slightly turned and she could see a black tattoo of the UNSC Navy emblem. A moment later, the pedestal pinged and the word, 'REIMBURSED,' and the total amount of the trip appeared on the screen. The driver gave her back the bus pass.

For a moment, she stared at it, then looked at him.

"I..."

"It ain't nothin', kid," said the driver. He then reached under the seat where there was a small compartment. Opening it, he pulled out an umbrella and handed it to her. "Here. You've seen enough of it tonight."

Vivian took it, muttered a thank you, and staggered down the steps. At the bottom, she hesitated for a moment, then turned around.

"I'll, I'll return it, I promise."

The driver smiled.

"Don't bother, kid, keep it."

"Thank you," was all she said, louder this time. The driver nodded and pulled the handle to close the doors. When they closed halfway, he suddenly opened it again.

"Take my advice kid," he said, "stay clear of the UNSC, or you'll end up driving a bus for them, too."

"I didn't know they ran a bus line," Vivian said, sarcastically but still flat.

"Trust me," he said with a wink, "they do. And nobody ever says thank you."

With that, he shut the doors and the bus thundered away. For a while, Vivian watched it disappear into the traffic amid the orange, rainy haze. A gust of wind broke her from her thoughts. Pulling her hood up and opening the umbrella, she began walking home. It was not a very long walk but the rain was still pounding and the wind was sweeping through the streets.

Bracing against the wind, she managed to get to the entrance of the apartment building. It was by no means a building of poor upkeep, though it was totally unlike the luxurious high-rise apartments the shipyard families owned. A clean, gray building that was twenty stories tall, with many windows on its face, was more welcoming than it ever was before.

Closing the umbrella, she went through the automatic sliding door. Throwing off her hood, she breathed deeply as the heat of the lobby enveloped her. Immense relief flooded into her chest and for a moment she wanted to cry. But she held herself well and began walking to the elevator.

As she passed the late-night desk attendant, she raised her building ID card. Whether the attendant was looking or watching television she could not tell. He didn't stop her and she didn't care.

Inside, she hit the twentieth floor button and it ascended quickly. Stock music played the entire way; besides the steady hum of the elevator, the water falling from her soaked hair and dripping on the floor were the only sounds she could hear.

Ding. The doors slid open. Vivian walked out and look both ways down the hall. It was empty and quiet. Looking at her watch, she saw that she still had time to clean up before her parents returned from the late night shift at the yards. Breathing a sigh of relief, she hurried to their apartment. It was the fifth door on the right, facing the street. Raising her ID card again, she swept it across the keypad scanner that was next to the handle. It blinked from red to green, a few lines of her information ran across the small screen, and she heard the handle click.

As gently as she could, Vivian opened the door. The apartment was completely dark, save for the red, orange, and yellow light pouring through the two windows. Other than the rain drumming against the glass and the whirr of the heater, it was silent.

Just to make sure, Vivian crept to her parents' bedroom on the right side of the living area. It was empty. Going to the opposite side, where the kids' bedrooms and bathroom were, she sneaked into her room quietly. Flicking on the light, she picked out some soft, comfortable clothes to wear. Instead of going to their bathroom, she went back to her parents'. She did not want to risk waking her sister and brother, and she would make less noise there.

Closing the door gently, she turned on the light, and took off her wet clothes. Each one made a sickly peeling sound as she removed them from her moist skin. Quickly, she rinsed off, the hot water providing great relief. But she looked up at the ceiling the entire time, she did not want to see the accumulation of mud and blood around her feet. Jumping out, she dried off and donned the fresh clothes. Turning off the light and gathering everything up, she hurried back to her room.

She dumped all the dirty clothes in the hamper and placed her sneakers over the floor heater so they would dry off overnight. Her stomach rumbled, so she went back out to the kitchen and opened the fridge. There were no leftovers, so she opened one of the drawers and grabbed a few slices of white cheese. These she devoured and before leaving, grabbed a red apple. Cleaning it under cold water, she ate it quickly too.

Although not quite satisfied, Vivian felt overwhelmingly fatigued. Even before she got on the bus, she was exhausted. Despite her hunger, it was time to rest.

Vivian shuffled back to her bedroom. Her room was small; there was a closet, a bureau, and a moderately sized composite wooden desk with her private terminal on it. All her notebooks were scattered across it and her bookbag was resting on the computer chair. The desk was perpendicular to her single window. Underneath the sill was a bookcase with two shelves. They were lined with hard copy books. Beside the bookcase was a nightstand with a drawer and a lamp. Next to that was her bed.

She went over to it and sat down. The head of the bed was away from the wall; she liked to look out the window at night. Looking out, she could see the shipyard. It seemed like no matter where one stood on Skopje, they could see those big cranes, the skeletal ships, the tool sparks, and strings of white lights. Even from those apartments she met with her friends, she could see them.

Vivian bent over, covering her face with both hands. She wanted to cry again but there were no more tears. She was just too tired, so tired, unbelievably, unequivocally tired. When she managed to look up again, eyes glossy, brow furrowed, nose wrinkled, lips trembling, she stared at the window. Water streamed down it.

The bottom had fallen out. Her world was different now. Nothing would ever be the same again. Imagining talking to her family or anyone she knew seemed like a terrifying impossibility. How could she ever look her friends' parents, who were practically kin, in the eyes again? Could she ever share any words with them? If she told anyone about that night, they would write her off as a rebel sympathizer. Even if she didn't go to prison she would be labeled. How could she bear the secret for the remainder of her life? The road ahead seemed so terrifying. No, it seemed like there was no road.

Wiping her face, despite the absence of tears, she sat back up. And she froze. Standing across the room was a figure clad in olive drab armor and digital green pattern camouflage fatigues. He was tall, towering, and held an assault rifle very closed his chest. He wore a balaclava and a helmet.

Whoever he was, he was enveloped in darkness. Or it seemed to emanate from his being, growing and roiling from him like a cloud of smoke.

Vivian could barely make him out as the darkness continued to grow. All she could make it with any clarity were his eyes. Both were open wide, very wide, uncomfortably wide. His pupils and irises were small. It seemed like he was in agony, angry, and utterly terrified.

So was she, so scared she could not scream, recoil, or run away. Vivian just began to shake and shake, sitting on the edge of her bed. The being came forward, taking long, hulking steps. When he was almost right before her, he raised his rifle and pointed it at her head.

* * *

Vivian opened her eyes. It was very dark and she could not see. Propping herself up by her elbows, she blinked. Nothing cleared. Was she in her bedroom?

She felt the cushion beneath her. Instead of bedsheets she felt the smooth leather fabric of an office couch. Leaning back slightly, she felt a pillow and the armrest. Turning sideways and reaching over the side, she found a small table. Fumbling, she flipped the switch to the lamp on it. Immediately, it winked on and the room was bathed in dull, yellow light.

It was her planetside office. By the great window overlooking the courtyard was her desk, the chairs on either side pulled slightly away from it at an angle. In between her desk and the doorway leading to the hall was the coffee table, with a leather armchair at each end and a couch on either side. A pair of empty white mugs with the UNSC Navy logo printed on the side sat on it; beside those were her tunic and overshirt, along with some miscellaneous paperwork she was drawing fleet formations on. Parallel to the couch across from her was a table with a coffee machine, mugs, and a selection of brews, a jar of sugar, and a cooling unit containing creamer and milk.

Two doors along the same wall led to her sleeping quarters and personal bathroom. But she could not go into the former. There, she felt trapped, small, and utterly alone. At least in the office space she could hear the planetside personnel attending their business. Footsteps echoed in the hall, some growing louder, others fading away. Occasionally, there was a snippet of conversation; a pair of ensigns discussing the construction of the orbital refitting station, a group of Army staff officers going over war game routines, and some Marines complaining about being left out of the upcoming operation.

Removing the blanket from her legs and sitting up, Vivian rubbed her eyes. Another new dream, derived from a memory. She shook her head then raised her wrist, but her watch was on the table. Picking it up, she read the time: 0132 hours. Setting it down quietly, she sank into the couch.

She could not tell what was worse, the boredom or being locked away from everyone. Vivian longed for Jasmine, her officers, or the other ship masters, just for their conversation. At the same time, only three days passed and she was already getting stir crazy. Perhaps that was no different; sitting in the Port for so many months already was driving her mad. To wave her hand and see a new section of the base begin construction continued to be an exhilarating, exciting feeling. But she needed to get back into space and huna new target. She needed to keep moving.

Outside, the rainfall was steady but not violent. From the array of lights below, she could see water streaming down the large window. For a while, she just listened to the rain. The temperature went down enough so that it occasionally turned to snow. But the rain seemed to always come back since she was interned in her office.

There was nothing to do except sleep, drink coffee, eat the meals they brought, and devise new battle plans for ship-to-ship actions. Her desk terminal and personal terminal were both removed on orders given by General Amsterdam. All communication devices were confiscated or rendered unusable.

Vivian adjusted the straps of her white tank top as she got up. Going back to sleep and remaining helpless against memories and nightmares was not something she was keen to avoid. She grabbed both mugs from the table and brought them over to the coffee machine. Taking out the pot, she went to the bathroom and filled it with water. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw the dark bags under her eyes, how faded her freckles were across her tan face, and how her blonde hair fell loosely on her shoulders.

After filling up the pot, she added the coffee, and began brewing. It was a standard UNSC blend; naturally, it smelled and tasted strong. While waiting for it to finish, she took a cloth and wiped the inside of both mugs. One she knew as her own, as she scribbled her abbreviated rank and surname upon it with a black marker pen a long time ago. The other was white too but lacked any denotations. Curious, she picked it up and began examining. On the bottom, she found, 'Dr. Ebrahimi,' written very neatly.

Instantly, her heart grew heavy. These were the mugs they bought during their time at OCS. She must have left it, Vivian thought, during her checkup a few mornings ago.

Only a few days, and she missed her friend. How she relied on her; for her friendship, her advice, her admonishment, and for always talking to her straight. If only she could have it all now.

Vivian went to the window as the machine groaned and the scent of coffee filled the office. Looking out through the watery glass, she saw the compound below. Vehicles rumbled in and out of the main courtyard, their red lights flaring. Personnel oversaw the unloading and distribution of cargo from the ships in orbit. Sentries scanned the perimeter from the guard towers and patrols prowled below. She could see their breath in the cold air, swirling around their heads or swept away by a gust of wind.

When would the rain stop, she wondered, sighing.

Some Marines were doing a PT run. It was so late, or perhaps it was more accurate to say early. They were restless, just like she was. Going for a run didn't seem like a bad idea. But she peeled away from the window and sat at her desk, like a bored high school student arriving at the class they disliked. After a moment, she began opening drawers, trying to find anything to occupy her. Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork, and some office supplies, were all she could find until she opened the bottom drawer on the left side. There, she found the scotch Rear Admiral Travers gifted her. It seemed like a century ago.

For a moment she thought about adding it to her coffee. Instead, she reached for the cigar package he gave her. Biting off the end, she pressed one to her lips, and grabbed the packet of strike-anywhere matches. Swiping one on the edge of the desk, she held it at the end. Puffing a little, the flame took, and smoke filled her lungs. Breathing deeply, she held it for a moment before exhaling. Then, she started coughing. It took a moment for the fit to pass. She could have laughed at herself if she was less fatigued. But she waved out the match and dropped it in the ashtray.

The coffee machine beeped and Vivian went over to it. Filling her mug, she held her cigar away and enjoyed the strong, fresh scent. Filling her mug and ignoring both sugar and creamer, she walked back to her desk. Setting the cigar down in the ashtray, she took a careful sip. The cigar was a little sweet, but not overly so. It was certainly much better than whatever terrible brand Frost and the other Marines smoked.

Gazing out the window again, she thought of him. How long did she think he was less of a monster than she originally imagined? Less than five minutes, she thought. The Marine who killed her friends really was a scared little boy playing soldier. His world changed that night; she felt sorry for that boy. But he was gone, and the man took his place. Man? Could he count as human? Teetering back and forth from one perspective to the other, philosophizing that killing was necessary and justified at one point, then elegantly portraying his remorse and turmoil. Who was she to believe, the sneering Marine who threatened her over dinner so many months ago, or the fractured young man sitting in the snow? Had Jasmine mellowed him, or had time away from killing forced him to face his own actions?

Vivian knew she had taken life. Not human life, by any means, but life nonetheless. It was easier for her. Those genocidal monsters felt no regret about burning billions in oceans of plasma. Soldiers died under her command, carrying a guilt of its own. She saw people, friends, die in horrible ways. But Frost killed thinking, feeling people, with his own two hands. Even she was not so blind to disbelieve killing changed a person. Was he lying and relished in the bloodshed like she always believed, or did the bravado and facade finally drop away, revealing the truth: he was damaged, like her.

"Did you do it?" she asked aloud. "Could you do it?"

Vivian took a long sip of coffee, closing her eyes as she savored the taste. Suddenly, she heard a sudden tapping. Looking over her shoulder at the door, she waited for it to open. However, it remained locked.

After waiting a moment, she sighed and went for another sip. The tapping resumed, a little faster this time. Vivian realized it was not coming from the door. When it happened again, even faster to the point of being frantic, she followed the sound into her quarters. Her small quarters consisted of a standard dresser, a small desk for her absent personal terminal, a cot and a stand for a light. On the wall by her well-made bed was window.

She went over and gasped, nearly dropping her mug as she looked at the figure in the window.

"Captain Kelly!?"

* * *

Chapter Word Count: 6209


	2. Chapter 2: Snow

**Hello, folks! I wanted to save my little announcements for this chapter and let the first chapter speak for itself. You can find them in the author's note and I highly encourage you to read it; you'll get some information about this story and how it will proceed, and also get a scoop on my other work!**

**To any new readers, this story is a sequel. I'd recommend reading the first story, _I'm Alone_, before reading this one. It stands at 50 chapters and just over 680,000 words.**

**(Also, cover art is graciously provided by DA artist, and a close friend of mine, Fail4Fun!)**

* * *

Chapter 2: Snow

* * *

"Benchmark White Two-Two, you are _too _far ahead. Fall back and maintain formation, over. Benchmark White Two-Two, are you receiving, over? Frost? Frost, are you listening? Get your ass back here, goddammit!"

Frost was traversing the snowy slope, going up the hill as quickly as possible. It was steep and slippery. After falling several times and nearly rolling back down, he let his MA5B assault rifle hang by its strap as he crawled on all fours. It was not so much crawling as it was clawing, digging his gloved hands and black boots through the snow and into the hard ground beneath.

Grunting and panting, a near-constant cloud of white flowing through his gray balaclava, he struggled upwards. His armor was heavy, the magazines in his bandolier were weighing him down; he thought about dumping everything just to get up there faster.

He drew closer to the snow-covered crest. Everything was white. The tremendous rainstorm from the previous night shifted to snow in the early morning. Only an hour ago had the heavy snowfall abated to a calmer state.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw the advance unit following his trail. At the bottom, the rest of the company was forming up. Behind them, under the falling snow, came the rest of the 89th Marine Expeditionary Unit. Several thousand men were encroaching on the hill, this one hill, near the foot of the mountain.

Rebels were nearby. They were deep in hostile territory. None of this was lost on Frost. Breaking off alone was beyond risky, it was defying everything he learned since his first day of basic training: stick together, work as a team. But he needed to get to the top. The frantic distress calls were still ringing in his ears.

Were they waiting at the top? Was anyone still alive? As he got closer, he took his assault rifle by the grip, but continued to paw his way upwards with his free hand.

'C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," he breathed through his clenched teeth.

He dug his fingers in, pulled up, pushed with his feet, and there was no more hill. Frost landed flat on his belly right on the crest and brought his assault rifle up. Training it back and forth in a semicircle, he checked for hostiles but could see none. Rising to a crouch, he checked again and opened the SQUADCOM.

"Two-Actual, this is Two-Two, clear up. Proceeding, over."

"Two-Two, Two-Actual, hold position, that's an order, over," Teo responded.

But he was not listening then. He got to his feet and began walking forward.

Frost thought he just entered a different world. The snow on the hilltop was all churned up and muddied, swept over and walked through. Sickly green grass was exposed in patches large and small. Some areas were so traversed, snowdrifts were on either side of the paths. Falling snowflakes were barely settling in the paths and patches. Swathes of the remaining snow were stained red. Everywhere, all he could see was red, red, red. And bodies, living and dead, were everywhere. Many were stripped of some or all of their clothing. It seemed as if all the dead men were drenched in blood all the way up to their waists. Many had eyes gouged out, heads caved in, missing lips and tongues, and extremities butchered. All were castrated and their throats were slit. As for the living, they were so still they could be mistaken for dead. Many were beaten and their faces were bruised and swollen. Their bare legs were covered with scratches and fingernail marks. Blood ran down their thighs, which were turning blue from the cold. Freezing, violated, dying as they were, they made no sound.

And in the center was a great bloody heap of human parts. Legs, arms, hands, feet, genitalia, tongues, and heads. There it was, right in the middle of everything, like some ghastly totem erected in worship of a bloody god. Blood, there was so much blood, it was almost impossible to define some of the limbs composing such a pile.

The snowflakes were falling so slowly, so softly, they almost seemed to have stopped. It was like Skopje was frozen, had ceased rotation, for this one moment.

Frost let his assault rifle hang loose. His hands shook as he walked towards it. It felt like he had no air to breath, no voice to make sound, no wetness of his eyes to shed tears. Wide-eyed, he walked through the disaster, absorbing it all.

He heard booted feet crunching in the snow. Slowly, he turned around. First, his fireteam appeared, followed by the rest of the squad. Soon, the entire platoon began cresting the hill. All stopped as he had and took it all in.

Teo immediately took a knee and pressed a finger to his earpiece.

"Benchmark White Six, Benchmark White Two, need you up here, sir, over," he said.

"Benchmark White Two, Benchmark White Six, solid copy, over."

Lieutenant Conroy came over the crest with his team a few minutes later. Instantly, his face filled with horror. His eyes were wide and his mouth fell open. He turned to his radio operator, Mills.

"Radio for CASEVAC." He walked past him and shouted down the hill. "Corpsman up, corpsman up! Doc, give'em what you can. Rest of you, form a three-sixty degree perimeter, I want this position locked down!"

"Yes, sir," Mills said, kneeling down, "Benchmark, Benchmark White Six Romeo, requesting immediate CASEVAC at grid: N-one-niner-niner-two-two-five. Popping smoke..."

Frost knelt down over one of the women. She was wearing her fatigue jacket, but her armor was gone. Her loose black hair was swept across her face by the wind. What parts of her face that were not smashed by fists and boot heels were utterly pale. Although she made no sound, her lips moved.

He brushed the air from her face and tucked it behind her ears. Taking off his rucksack, Frost pulled out the blanket he carried with him and placed it over her legs. Then, he took her in his arms, keeping her close while holding one of her hands.

"Dust-off's coming," he whispered, "Dust-off's coming soon, don't worry. Hey, can you talk to me? Tell me your name."

He asked, even though he could see the surname above the pocket of her jacket: Gonzales. But she didn't speak and her lips stopped moving. All she did was shake her head as her brow softened and eyes filled with tears.

Someone knelt on the other side of her. Frost looked up to see it was Steele. A lock of his blonde hair peeked out from his balaclava, waving in the wind. His crystalline blue eyes looked over the young Army trooper before meeting Frost's gaze.

That's when the first tears fell from Frost's eyes, dropping on the trooper's cheeks. "What's wrong with these people?" he asked, his voice trembling. Steele just shook his head.

"We're gonna kill'em all," Steele said, "fuckin' Innies."

In a short time, the air grew alive with aircraft engines. Frost looked up to see Pelicans and Falcons through the haze of purple smoke. When they landed, medical personnel rushed out. Marines not assigned to the permentier began carrying the wounded soldiers towards the aircraft. Others waited for stretchers.

"Lou, help me," Frost said. Shouldering his sniper rifle, Steele wrapped the blanket entirely around her legs and then picked her up in tandem with Frost. Putting each of her arms across their shoulders, while they held her under her thighs and by her back, they brought her to the nearest Pelican. Corpsmen and pararescuemen were assembling the other wounded. One by one, they were lifted up and given blankets, water, and dressings.

Their faces looked so empty, their eyes so lifeless, Frost wondered if they actually were still alive.

One after the other, the Pelicans lifted up into the sky and flew back to the base of operations offshore of Lionel City. Others took their place, taking more casualties aboard. As more wounded were transported, the Marines began checking the dismembered bodies for identification. Most of their dog tags were jammed into the mouths or open gashes on the body. It was grisly extracting them. Everyone collected the tags and delivered them to the Navy corpsmen.

Frost helped at first but looked back at the heap. It reeked horribly; it was a fleshy, bloody smell that nauseated one's stomach, left a black taste in the mouth, and an acrid stench in the nostrils. If anything was in his stomach he would have vomited.

Steele, right beside him, took out a pair of cigarettes. At first, he thought he was going to light them. Instead, he broke both in half and handed him two of the stubs. Both plugged their nostrils with the butts.

"Back in London, in the old part of the city, folks leave their trash everywhere. Place stunk to high heaven and this was-"

"Louis, shut up."

The two were about to start collecting dog tags again, when they heard a great _whump_ and a rocket flew overhead, narrowly missing a landing Pelican. Frost and Steele dropped to the ground. Cries and gunfire started ringing out along the perimeter.

"Contact!"

"Contact, contact, contact!"

Gunfire peppered the ground, throwing up handfuls of snow and grass.

"Contact, two o'clock, mountainside!"

"Shift your fire forward!"

Frost got to his feet, sprinted, and slid next to the Marines on the perimeter. As everyone darted for cover, they took the cigarette butts from their noses. He raised his assault rifle and returned fire. Muzzle flashes appeared and disappeared among the trees leading up the great mountain overlooking the hill. Shadowy forms darted between rocks, trunks, and fallen timbers.

"We're in a tight spot!" someone shouted. The hilltop possessed little natural cover. Some of the Marines were trying to dig through the snow into the frozen ground, but they soon gave up and returned to their weapons.

Going prone, Frost fired short bursts, focusing on the muzzle flashes he saw. The rebels were moving quickly, were spread well, and were utilizing their advantageous cover. More Marines came to the firing line and opened up on the mountainside. At a crouch, Steele began picking off and calling out targets. Knight also took a knee and began firing rockets; the explosions cast quick orange glows underneath the canopies, briefly illuminating their opponents. Other heavy weapons began pouring fire against the mountain; rockets, heavy machine guns, and XM510 grenade launchers. Trees exploded, sending a shower of sparks in all directions as the trunk fell. Branch after branch fell. Brown and gray puffs of smoke erupted all over the mountain. Clouds of snow were thrown up everywhere and the white mist roiled with the smoke throughout the trees.

Frost exhausted his magazine and cycled his weapon. As he did, he looked over at the other Marines. Other platoons began getting on the line until the whole company was assembled. The other companies were struggling up the slope and soon the whole battalion was assembling. Conroy was yelling over the SQUADCOM.

"Get the FO's up here!"

It was not the forward observer but the company fire support officer who showed up; it was Solberg, and his RO, Rosa. Solberg and Rose took a knee beside Conroy, who pointing at the mountainside with his hand. "I've got fifty-plus foot mobiles in the tree line, call for fire!"

"Understood!" Solberg took out a spotting scope. Holding it with one hand, he took the telephone wired to Rosa's backpack.

"Meteor this Benchmark Thirty, adjust fire, over." Using a combination of his binoculars and a sighting tool, he called in the grid. "One round, HE. Fifty-plus foot mobiles in the tree line. Danger close, over!"

It wasn't long before they all heard a whistling sound and a shell dropped at the foot of the mountain, below the tree line. The shell made a great tearing noise as it sent a column of earth skyward. Solberg got back on the radio and listed the corrections. Another shell fell, right where the enemy was entrenched. "Splash! Fire for effect, danger close, over!"

The air was soon alive with whistling. Moments later, the mountainside was pummeled by artillery. Columns of earth flew upwards, trees exploded and fell, and snow scattered. The barrage lasted for only a minute and the shock of each round was so great Frost could feel it against his breastplate. Almost everyone was still shooting at the mountainside.

When the barrage ended, calls of 'ceasefire' rang out up and down the line. Frost kept his weapon trained on the trees. It was very quiet and the only voice then was Solsberg, speaking coldly and quietly into the telephone, "Meteor, this is Benchmark Thirty. Good effect on target; end of mission, fifty-plus casualties, out." Solsberg put the telephone back on Rosa's radio, shook his head, and looked at Frost. He smiled. "God bless the guy who designed the Kodiak."

Unsure of just what to say exactly, Frost just nodded.

"Hoo-ah."

"Good work, boys."

Frost turned around to see Colonel Hayes standing over him. "Lieutenant Conroy?"

"Sir?"

"Take your platoon forward and inspect the area, make sure it's clear."

"Yes, sir! Alright, Second Platoon, form a line, keep intervals of one meter."

Frost rose to his feet, regrouped with his squad, and moved on. He was between Teo and Steele. They were not running, but were ultimately moving quickly. Everyone kept their weapons raised and their shoulders hunched. Each was a coil, ready to spring if somebody started shooting.

When they reached the foot of the mountain, they stopped. Conroy pointed to Frost and Steele. "Advance," he hissed, "check if it's clear. There might be spider-holes."

"No factor," Frost said. Side by side, the two slowly moved forward.

From one distorted world, Frost entered another reality altogether. Smoke swirled slowly around and snowflakes fell through the canopy. Everywhere there were fallen trees or the tops of trees. Bushels of evergreen branches were in piles. Stumps with jagged, sharps shards poked upwards. Most of the snow was obliterated and the ground was blasted black. Shells bore deep craters into the soil. Busted weapons were scattered all over the place. Bodies covered the ground. They were dressed in paramilitary clothes, a hodge-podge of captured O.D. greens and heavy-duty civilian clothes. Most did not have a complete set of body armor. Many were young and they were torn all apart. Bellies were opened and red, bloody guts were spilling out. Others were missing an arm or leg or all four limbs. Such parts were scattered all over the place. Some bodies were ripped in half or headless. All lay in horribly twisted, mangled conditions. Several bodies were so broken their heads were past the knees, or a leg was curled over the shoulder. A few were hit directly and all that was left of them was a foot or a hand. Frost accidentally stepped one the palm of a severed hand. Those shells fell with such intensity that a few of the dead was catapulted upwards and were hanging in the trees. Blood trickled from their open bodies, peppered with splinters.

Frost looked up at one, who lost both calves. His head was hanging to the left and the right was slashed by a flying piece of bark. As he approached the corpse, he saw that the eyes were still open, and blinking. Very quickly, they blinked and blinked.

Steele walked up beside him.

"That fucker still alive?"

Frost took out his sidearm, raised it, and fired three slugs into the body.

"Not anymore," Frost replied as he slid the pistol back into his holster. He then put a finger to his helmet earpiece. "Benchmark White Six, Benchmark White Two-Two, all clear, over."

"Solid copy, Two-Two. Advancing, out."

Frost turned to see him prodding another body with the long barrel of his sniper rifle. When it didn't respond, he kicked it very hard. Again, it did not stir. Turning to Frost, he shrugged and pulled his balaclava back up. Frost did the same. All one could smell besides the powder was singed flesh and spilled guts.

"Funny, these one's don't smell as bad," Steele remarked. "These blokes must be suicidal; who engages an entire Marine battalion with fifty-odd guys?"

"The kind who think they're hot shit," Frost answered, "the kind who think they're bad enough and hard enough to go toe-to-toe with us. The kind who think they're tough enough to pull shit like that down there and get away with it. You're right, they don't smell bad."

"The corpse of an enemy always smells sweet, said Titus," Colonel Hayes remarked as he came up with the rest of the battalion.

Marines began filling out among the trees. Bodies were checked. Hayes assembled officers and NCO's. Frost followed Teo over, keeping a few paces behind. "Army sent some of their boys up after us, they'll take care of the cleanup."

"What about all those casualties, sir?" Teo asked.

"MED CORPS will take care of them." He then pulled out a tactical data pad and opened up the map. "Here's the AO. ONI S-One reports indicate that the rebels have fortified this mountain stronghold with additional tunnels and bunkers laced in with the original titanium mines. Main rebel base of operations is in the open pit at the summit. Beyond this mountain are the Insurrectionist communities throughout the woods and plains. If we want to break the rebel presence on Skopje, we have to disperse those communities. And if we want to do that, we need to take this mountain."

Adjusting the chin strap of his helmet, Hayes shook his head. "This ain't a sweep and clear op anymore. It's S and D, boys. 88th is going to link up with us and we're gonna push up the mountain face here. 86th and 87th are going on the left flank, 90th and 91st, on the right, to encircle the mountain."

He sighed. "This is gonna be mountain and tunnel warfare; we'll have air and arty but no ass on this until the 92nd secures the one road going up. They're gonna have one hell of a time escorting our armor up there so we'll have to fight hard to take the heat of them. We have to make it to phase line yellow by nightfall. Army elements will rendezvous up with us then."

Frost peeled away, returning to the rest of the squad. All of the Marines forming the perimeter were spread out along the edge of the blasted area. Cloaked in the smoke and falling snowflakes, their silhouettes reminded him of statues. Troopers who were nearby bunched together, rifling through the pockets and pouches of the dead Insurrectionists. Some used their knives to cut off the homemade insignias on their collars for souvenirs. A few collected watches that were made of silver or gold, but most were digital. Others pocketed credit chits or credit paperbacks, earrings, studs, necklace chains, wedding bands, and other rings. Some of the men were having difficulty tugging the rings off, as the fingers were broken or stiff. So those Marines took out their KA-BAR knives and began cutting off the fingers. Once the digit was removed, prying off the ring became much easier.

Marines talked in hushed tones. Some laughed. A few swapped their treasure. All were crouched and hunched over, knives or collectibles in their hands. One of the Marines upended his helmet; several placed their newfound valuables inside. Pawing through it, they debated what to keep and how much it was all worth.

All Frost did was watch. He did not have any interest in looting.

Major Royce started coming through the crowds of Marines. He was not tall nor small, was not muscular but was by no means frail. Instead of wearing a helmet, he wore a headset over his black hair. He kept his lower face covered with a steel mask and wore a pair of tinted goggles.

"Strip the bodies," he ordered. "Armor, boots, clothes, anything. Make a pile of them, here."

He pointed to a patch of bare ground.

"Aye, aye!" Marines chimed. They unlaced boots, took off jackets, and removed the body armor. One by one, Marines brought the gear over to the bare patch and dumped it. Within minutes it grew very large. At some point, an engineer arrived with a jerry can filled with fuel. He emptied it on the still rising pile. When he finished, Royce struck a match on his breastplate and flicked onto the pile. It took and flames engulfed the pile. The smell was acrid; burning leather and rubber, clothes of various fabrics, and charred metalloids all stunk. Black smoke rose and roiled among the falling snow. Frost watched the flames for a while and began walking away to rejoin his squad. Everywhere, there were naked, bloodied bodies.

"Hey, there's one still alive!" a Marine shouted.

Frost immediately turned. Two Marines were dragging an Insurrectionist out from a great pile of leafy branches fallen timbers. As soon as he was in the open, they threw him against the trunk of a tree and began kicking him.

"Saw what you did to the Army on that hill," one of the Marines snarled as he punched the prisoner across the face, "saw what you did, son of a bitch!"

"Where'd ya get that Army helmet, huh!? Where, fucker!?"

More Marines began joining in and started beating on him. Punching, kicking, bashing him with their helmets or rifle butts. They cussed at him, screamed at him.

Frost didn't know just how quickly he joined them. One moment he was watching, the next he was shoulder to shoulder with a dozen men all pushing and shoving to get their hits in. Shouldering his rifle, he hit him in the belly, in the chest, kicked him in the knee, and stamped on his groin. In the bustle, he caught a glimpse of the rebel's face. Like many of his comrades, he was barely out of his teens. He was pimple-faced, skinny, with wide eyes and small chapped lips.

He hated this Innie, hated him more than anything.

"Let's shoot this son of a bitch!" someone shouted.

But Frost drew his KA-BAR knife and held it high in the air. Everyone saw and backed off. Without waiting another moment, Frost descended on the Insurrectionist. He grabbed him by the shoulder and jammed the knife into his gut. The rebel's eyes squeezed shut for a moment then they opened and bulged. His mouth opened but he made no noise.

For a moment, he let the knife stay embedded in the bowels. Then, he withdrew it and struck him in the belly again. This time, the rebel made a near-silent gasp and his whole body shook. Once again, he took the blade out and drove it back in. The rebel screamed, shrill and loud. Blood was running out from the wounds and Frost's gloved hand was stained red. When he took the knife out again, he stood over him. He held the knife point right above his eye, put his hand on the pommel, drove it deep to the hilt, and then twisted it.

When he pulled it out, some of the eye clung to the serrated edge. Casually, he wiped it off on his sleeve and brushed the rest away. Breathing heavily, he turned around and faced the other Marines.

"Hoo-ah," one said, pounding his fist against Frost's shoulder.

"Dirty little Innie," said another, walking away.

"Should have let him bleed to death," a third muttered.

"Semper-Fi," a fourth Marine said, tapping Frost on the top of his helmet.

"Hold fast, Marines."

Colonel Hayes approached. Frost and the others stopped. The tall, strong officer gazed at the fresh corpse. Then he turned to the men. "Cut his other eye out then tie him to a tree. The Innies and us will be going up and down this mountain, and I want them to know we're not taking any prisoners."

Everyone was gathering around him at that point. Hayes turned around looking at everyone. "We are _not _taking any prisoners. Shoot anything that moves. A company on the left, B company in the center, C company on the right, weapons and engineers bringing up the rear. Let's move it out, boys!"

Somebody handed Frost some rope. While two men picked the body up and pressed it against the tree, he wrapped the arms and torso to the trunk. When it was tight enough that the body did not fall, Frost removed the other eye. Meanwhile, one of the Marines took the scabbard from the dead rebel's belt. Another Marine took out a scrap of paper and a small pencil, then jotted something down on it. After he finished, he opened the shirt of Innie and pressed the note against his paling skin. The Marine with the knife slid it into the flesh, piercing the note as well.

Snickering, they walked ahead to join the others. Frost stepped closer. In jagged handwriting, the note read: JACK THE RIPPER DID THIS. JACK THE RIPPER IS COMING.

* * *

Frost sat on the edge of the cot in the white-padded cell. It was tucked into the corner opposite from the door beside the long horizontal window. On the wall across from the cot was the toilet, mirror, and sink.

For several days, Frost was staring at the toilet, sink, and mirror. If he had to look at his camouflage-smeared face any longer, he thought would truly go mad. Laying on the bed and rolling over would just put him face-to-face with the white padding. It was preferable but not by much; he did not like tight spaces.

So he decided to get up and walk to the center of the room, just to have his back to the drab normalities of the cell.

Everything was muted. He could not hear anything, could not see through the window, and there was no scent but that of his dirty fatigues and body odor. Judging from the fact he was only given two meals a day and no chance to shower, General Amsterdam was thoroughly pissed off. He remembered how hard she fought against the Covenant and being in her sights was more than uncomfortable.

Frost paced a little bit. His hands were fidgeting; he simply couldn't stop moving his fingers. Eventually he had to shove his hands in his pockets, but even then his fingers curled and twisted over one another. It was as if he possessed no control over them.

He thought about those Skopje days. In that horror, bloodshed, chaos, that sheer calamity, there was some strange, otherworldly order. Everything was just so simple. Find the enemy, kill the enemy. Each day on that mountainside there was contact. Sometimes it was an ambush or a brief firefight. Other times it was a slog that last for several days, seeing Marines and Insurrectionists dispersed among one another like cops and robbers. It was not a war of the 26th Century, but combat of so many centuries before come again. Savage and intimate, it was exhilarating and simple. When he killed someone, everything just fell into place. There was a cause justifying all of his brutal acts.

"Was there?"

Frost turned around. Leaning against the far wall was his sister Sadie. She was dressed in her favorite black hoodie and a pair of jeans. Her brown hair was pulled back into a small ponytail. Her blue eyes twinkled yet her expression was nearly blank.

"Is this a dream?" Frost asked.

"You tell me." Sadie walked away from the wall and stopped in front of him. She looked up at his gray eyes. "You were a bit shorter last time I saw you and you were far less ugly. How'd you get that scar?"

"Shrapnel from a Brute grenade launcher," Frost said. "You can't be here."

He reached out and touched her shoulder. Sadie shoved his wrist away.

"You said you'd be back."

"I reenlisted."

"You lied."

"I didn't know I was going to stay in the Corps back then."

"Then, you can't keep your word." Sadie walked past him and up to the window. She kept her hands in her hoodie pockets and her back turned to him. Frost looked away from her.

"They took away my belt and boot laces. They even took my watch. They think I'm crazy."

"I always thought you were. No sane person enlists."

"It was either that or our family got slammed with tax penalties and limited government assistance. I enlisted in the program so we didn't end up in poverty. And keep in mind because _I'm _serving, everybody's exempt from the draft, even Owen. You should be thanking me from keeping you away from the shit I've seen."

Sadie turned around, made an innocent expression, and got on her knees.

"Oh, little boy Jack, our savior, our protector, thank you one thousand times over!" Sadie mocked. She got back up and made a dismissive sound. "You know why you went, don't lie. You were a lost little kid who needed to get away and find himself. Pathetic."

"At least I'm something out here," Frost pointed to the rank insignia on his right shoulder. "See that? That's three up and two down; gunnery sergeant. I'm _Gunnery Sergeant _Frost, UNSC Marine, here. What about you? 'Failed art bar,' ring any bells?"

Sadie sneered and turned back around. For a long while she stared out the window. She didn't move at all. It did not even seem like she was breathing. Stock still, she seemed like a stone statue, like sentries on the perimeter he saw so long ago.

Finally, she turned around. With slow deliberation, she stepped towards him until she was right before him. Her eyes were icy.

"At least I haven't killed anyone."

Frost tried to speak, but his voice faltered. His mouth hung open slightly, just enough to expose his missing tooth. Sadie shook her head. "I knew you were a little different. You needed to see things, do things a little differently than everybody else. But with us, you always smiled, you loved to laugh, you had fun. When you started to grow up, I was afraid you would change and that little brother of mine would go away too." Sadie looked down and shook her head. "You left, and came back. Sixteen year old Marine ready to go. You didn't laugh, you didn't have fun in those final days. You just wanted to go. You said you'd come back and you didn't, this time."

"That's not true," Frost said, raising his arms, "I love you. I love my family."

"But you left," Sadie said, pushing his hand aways again. "And look at what you've done."

Silence fell between the two. Frost looked at her for a few moments. Then the white walls gave way and he found himself on the mountainside. Around him were so many Innie corpses. Instead of being torn by shrapnel, they were beaten, shot, bayoneted, and scalped. All were stripped of their clothes and were tied or hanged from trees. Eyes were gouged, tongues cut out, and bellies were open. Some of the bodies had their intestines stuffed in their mouths. Near one tree there was a long trench which prisoners had dug. They were all lying in it, face-down, with blood spilling from their heads.

Then he was at the snowy summit overlooking the deep pit mine. Below were all the defenses and buildings housing the hidden enemy.

Standing at the very edge, he looked down to see pebbles falling below. When he took a step back, he looked along the edge. On the opposite side, he saw Marines and Insurrectionist prisoners. The latter had their hands tied behind their backs. They were lined along the edge. One of the Marines went down the line and pushed them over with the butt of his assault rifle. Each fell screaming downwards, hitting their heads on the cliff wall, or on the rocks below. Some fell on shed rooftops. Each strike sounded like a pumpkin being smashed open on the ground.

Then he was standing over a young rebel, some kid who should have been in college. In his hand was his KA-BAR knife, poised to fall on the Innie. But the young man sitting on the ground was looking at him, eyes wide with fright, hands pressed together as if he were begging.

Frost blinked, and found himself back in the white room with Sadie. He turned away from her. Sadie made an unimpressed sound. "You can't face me, because you can't face yourself. When you stop, it all catches up to you, doesn't it?"

"I used to think we were right. I mean, they committed an atrocity and we had to pay it back. It made sense. It makes sense, doesn't it?" But he didn't wait for to answer, as he shook his head and pressed his hands to his temples. "No, no...just because you have a reason to kill-"

"Doesn't mean you should," Sadie finished. "You said it yourself." She walked around and faced him. "There's no defending what those people on Skopje did. And there's no defending your actions either."

"I used to think I could defend what I did. What we all did. A while back, I told Waters that it was justifiable, that wrongs need to be righted. Killing is necessary. Kill the right people, that means killing is right. Not just right, _righteous. _It means you're righteous."

"Perhaps it is," Sadie offered, "people who commit crimes need to be brought to justice. Sometimes, justice means death. But answering a crime with a crime? That's like killing someone to save them, or destroying something to get it back."

Frost ran his hands through his hair then over his face, smearing the facial paint even further. Something burned and bubbled inside him, causing him to turn around.

"I was doing the right thing by killing them. They tortured those soldiers."

"They needed to be punished, there's no disputing that." Sadie cocked her head to the left side. "But torture? Extrajudicial killings? Is that justice? I don't think so."

Frost gritted his teeth.

"War doesn't work like that, Sadie! You can't always be morally superior than the people you're fighting."

"Doing what they do makes you like them."

"I'm a good person."

"Brutalizing and torturing people? Killing them outside of regulations? Shooting them in front of their families? Murdering noncombatants?"

"I had justification!"

"There's a difference between having justification and using an excuse!" Sadie yelled. "You're not good, you're just like them. Only difference is you're a part of the majority; a part of the winning side. Winning doesn't make you right."

"You sometimes have to sacrifice your own morality to do the right thing in war."

"Spare me, you had plenty of choices to be righteous. Instead, you decided to be like them. You used that war crime as an _excuse _to be a monster because killing people feels good. Killing people makes sense to you. You know where you are in life when you kill. Don't try to deny it, you told Waters the same thing."

Frost felt tears roll down his cheeks. He felt something cold touch his cheek. When he looked up, he saw that it was snowing in the cell. No, he wasn't in the cell, he was outside. Was he? Looking down, he saw his boots on a white floor, but he couldn't tell if was snow either. It felt so cold and he could feel the wind rippling through his brown hair. When he turned around, he saw the hilltop and the forested mountainside towering over him. But when he looked forward, he saw Sadie, the cell, and the long window.

Sadie reached up and traced the scar across his face with her finger. She seemed very sad then. "You've been away from the war for too long. You need to get back to it or you'll lose your mind, won't you? Sit still for too long and you have to face yourself, and realize just how _gone _you are."

"I..." Frost started weakly, but his voice failed him again. The snow began to fall harder. Sadie stepped back from him.

"You have guilt. You have regrets. You have blood on your hands."

Frost raised his hands and his eyes widened when he saw them. Blood was pooling in his palms. It leaked through his fingers and over the sides, falling and staining the snow beneath him. Terrified, he stared at the blood that came without relent. Snowflakes fell and sizzled away in the warm red falls. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

When he looked back up, Sadie was gone. When he looked back down, the blood disappeared. He was in his chell, standing right in the center. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the cot, the sink, the wall mirror, and the toilet. In front of him was the window and the locked door.

Slowly, he walked over the cot and sat on it. He then keeled forward and slapped himself with both hands on the sides of his head. After stopping, he just clutched his hair and sat there.

* * *

Chapter Word Count: 6217

**Author's Note**

Firstly, cover art is graciously provided by DA artist, and close friend of mine, Fail4Fun. Returning readers, you may have seen this image already. But, if you haven't, and you'd like to see it and other _I'm Alone _art pieces Fail4Fun's done, search for her on DeviantArt and peruse the 'All' section of her gallery.

Secondly, some shameless self-advertising. I'm currently working on a Warhammer: 40,000 story on this site that currently has seven chapters. It will eventually appear on DeviantArt with illustrations graciously provided by, you guessed it: Fail4Fun! Besides that, if you'd like to see some of my original work, you can find me on DeviantArt as 'RadiationSoap.' I have thirty historical-fiction short stories/series part of a 'Weekly Western Collection' there, as well as numerous poems, historical-fiction, and even a few off/on multi-chapter historical fiction stories too. Check'em out, I'll really appreciate that. I also have a forum on this site, called 'Vox-Taps,' and there's a link to it on my profile. I've been a little inactive, but if you'd like to explore some topics related to my story and get some info, head on over. Feel free to post a comment in any discussion threads, I'll get back to you and you're more likely to get a response there than by PM.

Thirdly, here's the scoop on _I'm Alone: Exalt_. I wanted to start with two chapters, and I'm sure you're wondering what the update frequency will be like. My current goal is to write one chapter per week, _at least_. I have three other projects going on currently so I'm trying to allot a proper amount of time. Chapters will be, at a minimum, 6,000 words. If you want more information on them, you can find a specific thread on the forum related to this story.

Lastly, I'm going to avoid long author's notes like these in the future to avoid word count padding. Comment responses will be answered here directly, but for the full response, you'll have to check the forum. There will be a new thread there next week.

To returning readers, thank you very much for your patience and I look forward to speaking with you again! To new readers, be sure to read the first story in this series, _I'm Alone_, so you get the full picture, and I hope you enjoy it!

**Comment Responses**

**TheShadeOps: **You bet we're back! Good to be back! Good to see you, my man!


	3. Chapter 3: Metal

Chapter 3: Metal

* * *

The Pelican began its descent from orbit.

It was dark inside the passenger compartment, save for the dull red light glowing by the rear hatch. Five Marines sat on each side, their weapons between their knees and pointing upwards. Everyone sat erect and still. Their olive drab armor was nearly as black as the metal walls of the dropship. All wore balaclavas and only their eyes were visible.

Occasionally, one would adjust a strap on their rucksack or tug a section of their body armor back into place. Sometimes, a Marine would sigh or make a restless, sputtering sound. Up by the cockpit, a Marine checked his watch. He stood up and ducked into the cockpit. When he sat back down, he held up one finger. A moment later, the pilot spoke over the comms.

"One minute," he said in an emotionless voice. All of the Marines held up their index finger.

"One minute," they all said, "one minute."

Steele squeezed the barrel of his sniper rifle tightly. He was sure if he wasn't wearing gloves, he could have seen his white knuckles. Sharply, he inhaled.

He felt a fist on his shoulder. Looking over, he saw Corporal Frost's genial gray gaze. His grasp shifted, clasping Steele by the collar of his body armor. Lightly, he shook him then tapped him on the top of the helmet.

"No fear," he said over the TEAMCOM, as the Pelican's descent created a great rush of air that could deafan a man.

"Do I look afraid?" Steele asked, brushing a blonde locke away from his eye.

"You look like you could bore a hole right through that seat, Lance Corporal," Sergeant Teo said over the commlink.

Shaking his head, he avoided eye contact with everyone else. Some of the others chuckled. The pilot's voice returned.

"Thirty seconds."

All of the Marines held up their thumb and index finger horizontally, keeping them spaced by an inch.

"Thirty seconds, thirty seconds," they said together.

The Pelican shuddered. Everyone was jostled in their seats; their armor made a metallic clunking sound. When it passed, Steele could feel the floor vibrate steadily as the dropship's speed decelerated. It was almost like riding shotgun in a Warthog; when the driver began to brake, one could feel the fast attack vehicle's entire body slow down, and the occupants' bodies sank slightly into the seat cushion. Were it not for the harnesses attached to the hull, he would have been shaking just like the craft.

As the Pelican slowed, the pilot counted down, "Ten seconds, nine, eight..."

When he got to one, the Pelican jolted as the landing gear deployed. The crew chief got up and went to the rear hatch. The light turned green. Immediately, the Marines removed the harness and stood up. In the same instant, the rear hatch hissed as the cabin depressurized. It opened and the ramp lowered. Turning around and stepping to the side, the crew chief motioned out of the Pelican with the flat of his hand. The squad filed out, hopping onto the tarmac and into the cold rain.

They were on the airfield of an extensive Army base located on an island offshore of Lionel City. It was a true fortress. The perimeter was shaped like a pentagon, with concrete walls standing five stories high. On each side of the walls were titanium armor plating, wet and glistening in the searchlights. At each point in the perimeter there was a formidable tower, laced with firing ports, heavy machine guns, and rocket pods. Along the ramparts, Army troopers scanned the sea. Some watched the inside of the base and their gazes followed the Marines as they walked.

Wolverines were entrenched in the grass on either side of the runway. Their dual missile pod launchers were pointed skyward and scanned back and forth. Sandbags lined their pits and there was a squad of Army troopers at each one. Like those atop the ramparts, they watched the Marines march towards the base. Each soldier wore a poncho which was flapped, pulled, and thrown about in the wind. None seemed to care, though, standing stock still as the rain pelted them.

At the end of the long tarmac, lit up with red and green lights along the sides, were a series of hangars. Dozens of Falcons were being readied by their crews. Cockpit and compartment lights glowed green and red respectively, illuminating the mechanics. Behind the Falcons was a small fleet of Pelicans. As they were serviced, their rear hatches were left open. An eerie red ambiance emanated from the troop compartments of each dropship. Rainfall in these blooms seemed otherworldly.

Wind swept across the tarmac, sweeping the rain accumulating on it like little waves. Across from the helipads was the motor pool, where vehicles ranging from Warthogs to Scorpions sat. Overhead base lights cast white light above and behind them, making them look like an array of ghost machines. Their armor plating coarsed with rainwater and shimmered in the white arcs.

Beyond were a hospital, armory, depot, and numerous barracks blockhouses. Overlooking it all was a massive headquarters and administrative building. While every other structure on the base was dark and dormant, this one was bristling with light. Like the outer walls, it too was reinforced with armor plating.

Besides the steady rain pattering on the tarmac, all Steele could hear was the drum of booted feet and rustling equipment. None of the Marines made eye contact, keeping their gaze forward. When they neared the main compound, they saw another Pelican descending from the dark sky. He recognized it as Colonel Hayes' personal command Pelican and he rolled his eyes.

He elbowed Frost.

"Why're they making us get off the bloody Pelicans just to get on some other ones?"

"I think he wants to say something, or go over the brief again," Frost offered. "Not to mention they have to get the other MEU's down here too for the mop up."

Before entering cryo aboard the transportation flotilla, the Marines spent days preparing for the operation. Any operation, large and small, began with a briefing by the officers. A separate one was held for officers and non-commissioned officers, then they had a grand one with all members of the expeditionary unit. Sitting down in the hangar, officers showed them maps and grids, enemy hotspots, civilian locations, and UNSC stations. After getting a crash course on the planet, the actual mission brief began. ONI Section-One, military intelligence, gained information of an Insurrectionist recruitment drive in the dilapidated outskirts of Lionel City, Skopje. HIGHCOM was furious the flood of Insurrectionists fleeing the Outer Colonies, like rats on a sinking seacraft, were cementing themselves among the Inner Colonies. So, the 89th Marine Expeditionary Unit's first mission was to raid the meeting grounds and root them out.

Then began the smaller briefs. All of the components of the MEU, from the air wing, to the mechanized branch, the support units, and the line battalion, each held conference. Positions were analyzed, marked, and memorized. Specialists gave lectures on what job they would be doing, right down to which door they would be breaching. Who would be on overwatch, who would be on infiltration, who would make up the assault times, which personnel would detach to support them; every role was discussed and assigned. Once everyone was synced on the mission details, it was just a matter of putting their gear in order.

"Doesn't make any sense. We're ready," Steele muttered.

"Maybe the old papa's got something to say for our first mission," Ocampo said from behind him. "He's almost as big a windbag as you are, limey."

"He ain't half as smarmy as you are, ya Argie wanker," Steele said over his shoulder. He heard Ocampo snicker.

"Better be nice to me. I may not cover your ass when we get into the fire."

"I'd rather have any other Marine in this squad," Steele said, smiling under his balaclava. "Because if you end up next to me on the line, I might as well just off myself."

Everyone who heard chuckled, including Ocampo. He felt his friend's hand tap the back of his helmet.

"_Semper Fi_, limey."

"_Semper Fi, _Argie."

Overhead, they saw Pelicans and Albatrosses flying towards Lionel City Army Base. Their heavy vehicles would be transported there and would rendezvous with the infantry after the first phase of the operation was complete.

To Steele, the shadowy aircraft were so ominous they seemed to belong to a legend or fable. Beasts, carrying monsters of destruction in their bellies, silently prowling through rain clouds. Below, dropships continued to disgorge their complements of Marines. The heavily armed and armored soldiers walked slowly under the few courtyard industrial lights, briefly bathing them in orange and yellow glares. It was demonlike, how they appeared and disappeared in the gloom, wet, masked, and walking with machine-like movements. Their wet battle armor glistened. They did not feel the rain or the wind. It was as if they were made of metal. With so many squads, platoons, companies, sheer columns of Marines moving across the airfield, it gave the entire compound an otherworldly, inhuman quality of movement.

For the first time in his life, Steele felt his heart swell in awe. Finally, it seemed like all the power was on his side. Tanks, fast attack vehicles, self-propelled artillery and more were touching down across the bay. Hundreds of Marines were gathering around their commander. Every man was armed with the latest, deadly weaponry. In orbit was a flotilla of powerful ships.

Those days in London came back. A neglected, blonde haired youth prowled the streets looking for trouble. Most days, he found it. It was never just a simple insult or a bout of teasing. Each day fists fell on him, knees knocked the wind out of him, and heels bloodied his already swelling face. Pimple-faced, studded, grinning teenage hooligans laughed and mocked him, taking what few possessions he had. His brother was not there to save him, nor his father or stepmother. Nobody cared, not even the city itself. Sometimes he would look up at those glittering skyscrapers, built of concrete, titanium, and steel. They were only beautiful from a distance; they stood over refuse and rubble. If he stayed any longer, he was going to become a part of it.

Now, he was on the side with the biggest guns. That was fine by him.

The battalion assembled around Colonel Hayes. The colonel was standing on top of a supply crate. He cracked a red flare and tossed it on the pavement. As it burned, it was so bright some of the Marines in the front ranks had to step back. Hayes then took off his helmet and rolled his balaclava to the top of his head, wearing it like a wool knit cap. Rain water traveled down his face as he stared hard at the men.

"This is it," he began. "You've been training for three years. You have grown from boys to men, but you are more than that. You have become _Marines_; the best of the best, the roughest, toughest, meanest killers in the entire United Nations Space Command. When diplomacy fails, when the Colonies grow unruly, it is the Marine Corps they look to. These raggedy-ass Innies think they're top dogs because they can derail a train or detonate a bomb in a crowd of civilians. This is delusional. The UNSC Marine Corps is going to be their reality check and remind them their place is under a boot heel."

When he said this, he curled his left hand into a wrist and held it up. "What do you say, Marines? Do you want to get some blood on your bayonets!?"

Everyone thrust a fist into the air and cheered, even Steele. Hayes smiled. "You're gonna shoot until the barrels glow red hot!" Men started cheering. "You're gonna waste the rebels until you'll be sitting in piles of brass!" Marines hollered and whooped. "You wanna be aggressive, hyper, lethal, vectors!?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" the entire battalion shouted.

"You're gonna kill'em all!" Hayes roared.

At this, the Marines went mad. They jumped, waved, swore, and cheered. Some of the Marines who were not wearing goggles were so excited their eyes were bulging. Everyone wanted to go. Even Steele found himself holding his sniper rifle up in the air, shaking it as the barrel pointed skyward.

They were not the modern soldiers of the 26th Century. Instead, they had become warriors. Centuries ago, men gathered around roaring campfires; weapons in hand, faces painted, blood up, they listened to the chant of their party leader. What was said mattered little in the end, the outcome would be the same. They were going to find the enemy and kill them all.

###

The Marines piled into another Pelican. Before long, the hatch closed, and it took off. Immersed in the red glow and surrounded by metal walls, Steele sat back. This time they did not wear harnesses.

Everyone was still excited. Last minute weapon checks were conducted and Sergeant Teo went down both sides of the Pelican, checking each man's equipment personally. When he was satisfied, he tapped each man on the side of his helmet. After going over Steele's equipment, he hit his helmet very hard.

"You're beginning to act like a Marine," he grunted before retaking his seat.

"Man, this is gonna be awesome," said Ocampo, sitting on Steele's left. He held out the flat of his hand and Steele smacked his palm. Immediately, he stuck out his own and Ocamp hit it too.

"This is gonna be one hell of a light show. Been three years, I'm ready for some action," Steele remarked. He turned to Frost. "Nate, you ready, bruv?"

Frost turned and looked at him. His gray eyes twinkled in the dull light and he could tell from the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes he was smiling. He gave a thumbs-up gesture.

"Hell yeah, it's time we did some real shooting."

The two bumped their fists together.

"Gonna kick some real ass, boys," said Bishop, sitting across from them. He was holding his shotgun between his legs. "Rebels won't know what hit'em."

"Stay aggressive boys, but stay sharp," Teo said. "Let's go over it one more time. Steele, Ocampo, overwatch. Once we've breached the enemy perimeter, you'll be relieved by Third Platoon's sniper team. Me, Frost, Bishop, Wright, first assault team. Maddox, Knight, Grant, Moser, second assault team. Remember, we want to keep it quiet and go loud on _our _terms, not their terms. Am I clear?"

"Clear, sergeant!" everyone said.

"Alright give me a count. Kill on three."

"One, two, three, _kill_!" everyone said together. There was some chuckling, some more hand gestures, and a few more eager exchanges.

Then the passenger compartment grew quiet after that. The squad did not speak for a long time, or made any kind of sound or movement. Nobody coughed, sighed, or sneezed. No one drummed their fingers on the seat or on the barrel of their weapon, nobody patted their knees or tapped the seat they were in.

Steele noticed everyone was beginning to fidget as the journey continued. Curious, he looked at his hands which he kept wrapped around the barrel of his rifle. His grip was not tight, nor too loose, and he wasn't squeezing it like before. He found it odd it was earlier, before the mission even began that his knuckles were white under his gloves.

"Yo, I thought we were gonna be shooting Covvies," Ocampo suddenly said.

"Been training for three years to head to the Outer Colonies and we're heading to this place?" Bishop put in. "Why the last minute change? Everyone was saying 'Covvies, Covvies, Covvies,' and now they come up and say, 'Innies.' Fucking weird, boys."

"I never thought the human-to-human combat doctrines they were teaching us would ever come up," Maddox added. "Guess it'll pay off now."

"Not sure that I want it to," Frost grunted.

"Yeah, I'm not sure if I want to kill anyone," Ocampo said. "I'll kill a Covvie, sure, but I mean, people? Real people?"

"Well, they're Innies, right?" Steele offered. "They haven't stopped being the enemy last time I checked, little bruv."

"I know but there's all different kinds of Innies, aren't there? There's just those normal folks who go picketing with the goddamn signs, right? What if we end up putting holes in those kinds of folks instead of the hombres who shoot up malls?"

"Intel said this is a recruitment drive," Frost said, "so there'll probably be combatants and noncombatants all mixed up together. ROE says we're clear to engage anybody with a weapon but Hayes is acting like we're gonna blast anyone we find there. Even if I come across someone with a weapon, I might just try to disarm them if I can."

"This is _not _a prisoner snatch," Teo said then, "we're here to sweep and clear the area. I'm not hearing the aggression from earlier."

Silence fell again.

###

The Pelican began its descent and the crew chief rose to his feet.

"Stand up!" he yelled.

"Ten seconds..."

The rear hatch opened and the ramp lowered; the red light flashed green. The chief pointed out.

"Go! Go! Go!"

Steele was out before he knew it. The squad assembled in a semicircular position around the Pelican's stern. He looked through the scope, activating its night vision feature. For about three hundred yards in front of him, there was a grassy field. At the end was a soft rise in the landscape.

He covered his sector while the other Pelicans dropped their ramps and the Marines formed a perimeter. Once each squad was clear of the dropship, it closed its hatch, gained altitude, and flew back towards Lionel City. Steele didn't watch, only listened. After a few minutes, it was silent save for the pattering rain and whistling wind.

"All call signs, this is Watchman," Colonel Hayes voice came over the comms, "execute."

"Form a wedge an advance, Frost, on point," Teo said over the TEAMCOM. Everyone assembled in a reverse V, with the point facing the rise, and moved forward at a quick pace. Nobody was bounding, but they were not walking either. With so many hundreds of Marines moving at once, they made a lot of noise; armor rattled, rucksacks jostled around, and bandoliers slid around.

"Halt, halt, halt."

The battalion stopped at the bottom of the rise. Steele finally took a moment to look around. As far as he could see on both his left and right side, were crouching Marines. Their olive drab armor was so dark it looked black in the night. Marines were scanning the environment through their scopes or were providing security on their rear.

Scouts were sent up the slope. When the 'all clear,' was given minutes later, the units began to disperse under Hayes' instructions.

"Apex, left flank, Campus, right, Benchmark, direct front, Dagger..."

Steele and the others ascended the rise. From the top, he could see the abandoned, unfinished urban projects that they were to assault. The area of operations was divided into three sections in the shape of an a face-up horizontal L.

Along a road leading to the bottom section was a crumbling neighborhood, making up the length of the shape. At the right angle of the road was a ten story terraced apartment building. Beyond that at the end of the road was a very wide area with over a dozen apartment complexes in unfinished or mostly finished states. The more urbanized area was the assault location. A Company, call sign Apex, was clearing the neighborhood before assuming their assault position on the left flank of the target. C Company, call sign Campus, was circling on the right flank to cut off an escape route into the mountains. D Company, Dagger, was to leapfrog by Campus to take up a position on the opposite side of the target area. B Company, Benchmark, was going to take control of the lone terrace as an overwatch position before assaulting directly.

Once the Marine combat element was in place, a joint Army-Marine task force would journey through the city and secure the main exfiltration route. Combined with their heavy vehicles, the Marines would swarm the area, eliminating any of the Innies who put up a fight.

The company commander, Captain Bannerman, gave the radio signal to advance. Steele was behind Frost and Ocampo, who were side by side in front of him. As they went down the slope, they were quick and quiet.

They reached the road, turned right, and locked down the terrace apartments. Steele waited with Ocampo while the rest of the squad and other teams infiltrated the building. The two were back to back, Steele covering the road and Ocampo keeping his rifle on a gate on the adjacent compound wall.

"I think I might piss myself," Ocampo whispered over his shoulder.

"Don't get any on my boots," Steele hissed hastily.

"All Benchmark call signs," Captain Bannerman called over the SQUADCOM, "building is secure. Sniper teams deploy on the fifth floor."

Steele stood up, turned, and patted Ocampo twice on his right shoulder. Ocampo was right behind him as they went into the building. Other Marines came pounding down the stairs; when Frost came by, the two friends clapped each on the shoulder. After passing, Steele looked over his shoulder at him. Frost was laser focused and moving like a machine; he was in the zone. Steele wished he was going with him.

When they got to the fifth floor, Steele and Ocampo took the room closest to the stairwell. Because of its location, it was one of the few apartments that lacked a balcony. There was no furniture save for a small crate that once carried tools. Immediately, Ocampo grabbed the crate and brought it to the window. He flipped the latch and slid the window open. Steele sat down on the crate and propped the bipod on the sill. Letting the butt sit on the floor, he took off his helmet and removed his balaclava. His bright, blonde hair flopped to the left side of his head as he picked the rifle back up and looked through the scope. Ocampo knelt beside him with a pair of binoculars, resting his elbows on the sill.

"Okay...we've got one, two, three, four, repeat four armed foot mobiles standing guard. Confirm you have eyes on?"

Steele slowly moved the rifle and scanned the area. Each of the four rebel guards were standing at the entrance of several apartment complexes. All were leaning on walls, looking at mobile phones, or smoking cigarettes. None were taking their jobs seriously.

"Confirmed, eyes on four armed foot mobiles, automatic rifles, sidearms. Call it in."

Steele continued to observe the area. Many of the opposite apartments' windows were boarded up or there were curtains pulled tight. Light escaped through a small crack in a few of the windows. He tried to spy movements or silhouettes in those slim lights but could not find any.

His heartbeat was steady and his breathing controlled. Steele felt very comfortable.

"What's that? What's that?" Ocampo hissed.

"Be more specific."

"Unarmed foot mobile, female, running down the road, towards the target area."

"The fuck..." Steele shifted his rifle and found the woman. Although the scope offered night vision, he could not make any acute details of the woman besides her long black hair and slightly pudgy frame.

She was running as fast as he could to get into the target area. Steele put a finger to his earpiece. "I'm calling it in. Benchmark White Two-Actual, this is Benchmark White Two-Four. I have one unarmed foot mobile booking it to the target zone. Potential informant, she may have seen the birds, over."

"Two-Four, Two-Actual; she in a Innie uniform, over?"

"Two-Actual, Two-Four, negative. Requesting permission to engage, over."

"Two-Four, Two-Actual, taking it up the chain, wait one." There was a pause and he heard a frequency shift. "Benchmark White Six, Benchmark White-Two; sniper team has spotted unarmed foot mobile, break. Suspected Innie informat; sniper team is requesting permission to engage, over."

"Benchmark White-Two, this is Benchmark White-Six. ROE says we cannot engage anyone without a weapon. Permission denied, over."

"Solid copy." The frequency shifted. "Two-Four, Two-Actual, you copy that, over?"

"Solid copy, over." Steele shook his head. "Fuckin' ROE."

He watched as the woman ran into the compound. His heart rate increased. The nearest guard did not have an extreme reaction. When she came jogging up, he just put his mobile phone away and got off the wall. It confirmed his fear; she was a rebel sympathizer. She pointed, but not towards any of the Marine units. There was some shouting, and the guards slipped inside the buildings. She stayed outside.

Chatter resumed over the comms.

"We've lost the element of surprise," someone muttered.

"If we don't go in now, we're gonna miss the whole lot," another added.

"Cut the chatter, keep the comms clear," an officer ordered.

Steele checked his watch. The convoy was still twenty minutes away.

Then, the first groups began to exit the buildings. At first it was a trickle of two or three persons, then bunches of people both armed and unarmed.

"Fuck, we're losing them," Ocampo hissed. It was then that Hayes came over the comms.

"All call signs, execute the operation. Weapons free."

Steele flicked the safety off and scanned for targets.

"Top floor, building on the left, northwest corner. Innie with a pistol," Ocampo said. "Confirm you have eyes."

Steele shifted the rifle. He spotted the rebel looking through the window. The man was craning his neck to look down at the ground, searching either for Marines or observing the fleeing Insurrectionists.

He focused the reticle on the rebel's chest. It lit from blue to red.

"Eyes on."

"Send it."

The rebel turned slightly, Steele squeezed the trigger, and then the window was empty. All he could see was a large hole in the glass. Ocampo whistled. "Holy shit, you got him. Round hit center mass."

Steele took his eye from the scope for a moment. His breath hitched and his mouth opened a little. Slowly, he ground his front teeth, then he smiled.

Automatic gunfire erupted then as Marines stormed into the target zone. Yellow and white muzzle flashes lit up the grounds. Retreating Insurrectionists began falling. Sweeping the rifle back and forth, he continued searching the windows for targets. Another rebel appeared in a window below the first. When he opened the window and leaned out, he raised a rifle. Squeezing the trigger, Steele watched as the bullet struck the man in the head and the body fell out the window. It fell right into an open dumpster, sending a few pieces of loose trash into the air.

"Oh ho ho, wow..." Steele laughed, "did you fucking see that, bruv?"

"Dude, I did, that was great. Hey, got another one, right hand building, fifth floor."

Steele wheeled the rifle around. There was somebody in the window holding a pistol, standing as bold as brass in the center. It looked almost like a painting or a framed photograph. "Send it, bro." One trigger squeeze and the bullet hit center mass. The impact of the heavy caliber bullet sent the rebel back with such force, Steele saw his legs fly up when his back hit the ground. "Awesome. Got a runner, heading east up that rise. See him?"

"I got eyes on," Steele said, leading the target so the reticule was slightly above him.

"Send it."

He squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit the man square in the back; it blew off his jacket and opened his back.

"That's four for four, baby," Steele said, dumping the magazine and sliding a fresh one into the rifle.

"I think I saw his fuckin' spine dude!" Ocampo declared, excited.

Steele kept scanning for targets. Then he saw the same woman who alerted the rebels. She must have seen the Marines approaching minutes earlier as she ran to the side of the building and was crouching in between two dumpsters.

"Fuckin' bitch," Steele grunted.

"Do you have eyes on a target? We've got a lot of blue down there, bro."

"Between the dumpsters, facing us."

"Yeah, I got eyes on." Ocampo looked up from his binoculars. "Should we wax her?"

Steele didn't have a chance to answer. A squad of Marines ran by her and one saw. He stopped and turned his helmet lamp on. She was bathed in white light and raised both hands. The Marine pulled out his sidearm and emptied the clip into her. When he walked away, her nose was shot off, an eye was bleeding, there was blood leaking from the holes in her cheek, and there was a tear in her scalp.

* * *

"Fuck me," Steele said, banging his head lightly on the cell wall, "I need a _goddamn _smoke."

He was still in the same dirty fatigues from a few days earlier. The smell of his body odor and mucked up uniform filled the cell to the point of revulsion. No one would let him shower and the meals they served were either bland or absolutely disgusting.

To him, a hunger strike was becoming far more desirable than forcing down the food the Army served.

Walking away from the walls he journeyed over to the window. He couldn't see through but he got so close his face nearly pressed against the glass. "Any of you cunts out there got a smoke to spare? I know you fuckers are out there, eh? Take a man's boot laces and belt, fine, fucking fine. Take a man's _smokes_? You're all real cock-suckers." There was no response. Aggravated, he hit the glass. "C'mon, you fucks! What is this, the fuckin' silent treatment? If I wanted the silent treatment from somebody I'd get married! Oh I know, General Amsterdam probably wants a confession, doesn't she? Well I got a confession for her right here!"

Steele back away from the window, unzipped his pants, and pulled his penis out. He grabbed it. "Here's my confession, General! Open wide!" Again, no one responded through the intercom or came through the door. Steele rolled his eyes and zipped up. "Bunch of boring sods. Hey, tell Amsterdam I fucked her XO. Oh yeah, that's right, I put the pipe to Colonel Campbell, how do ya boys like that? She's a real freak, I tell ya."

Steele waved at the window dismissively. "You lot are no fun." He began walking over to his bed.

With a loud hiss, the door opened. He turned around. Four Army troopers walked in. Steele was delighted. "Oh, you heard me?"

"No, it's time for your breakfast," one said coldly. "Stand against that wall, Marine."

Slowly, deliberately, Steele went to the far wall and faced the wall. He listened as two of the troopers came over to detain him, while one stayed at the door, and the fourth took his dinner to the bed.

As soon as he felt one of the men take his hand he whirled around and headbutted him. The soldier stumbled back. Instead of hitting him, the other guard tried to grapple him. Steele grabbed him by the shoulders then brought his knee up into the man's groin. When the soldier recoiled, he punched him square in the mouth.

Yelling, the guard who dropped the plate of food, charged. He swung, but Steele ducked and tackled him. Straddling him, he began hitting him in the face. Before he could get more than a few punches in, a rifle butt cracked against his head.

Steele immediately fell over and his hand went to the cut on his scalp. His ears rang a little and his vision was blurred. Someone came over and kicked him in the gut twice, but somebody stopped that man. Rolling onto his back, he looked up at the four troopers. The first's nose was broken and was bleeding profusely, the second was missing a tooth and had a smashed lip, and the third's eye was already swelling. Meanwhile, the fourth man kept his assault rifle trained right above Steele's face until the soldier with the swelling eye took it away from him. He turned the safety off and slung the rifle over his shoulder. Everybody was talking. Steele couldn't hear them but he wasn't trying to listen anyways.

Finally, the first man spit on him and the third ushered everyone out. When they were gone, his hearing returned just in time to hear the door hiss shut and lock. For a while Steele, just lay there, feeling the blood trickle between his fingers.

Sitting up, he opened his other hand. In it was a pack of cigarettes and a packet of strike-anywhere matches. During the fight, he was able to rifle through some choice pockets and snag them. Grinning triumphantly, he put one to his lip, struck the match on the floor, and lit the cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he felt the smoke fill his lungs. When he couldn't take in anymore, he sighed contentedly. Gray smoke filtered from his mouth and nose.

Army troopers always got better brands, he thought to himself.

Getting on his feet, he swayed a little and nearly fell over. After righting himself, he walked over to his bed and sat down. The dish had been dropped, but most of its contents were still on it. Lumped on his plate was a pile of mushy scrambled eggs that were cold and gray, as well as some wilted hash browns. There were no utensils and they must have forgotten to leave water.

Steele just put the plate to his side. He wished he was not alone; it made dealing with anything, from poor food to battle all the more tolerable. Anyone's company would have been preferable to nothing at all. Frost, Carris, any of his mates. It was then he thought of Ocampo. That brought a smile to his face.

Ocampo was an energetic, pranking brat from Argentina. Next to Steele, he was the most unsoldierly Marine in the entire 89th MEU. Both of them took a certain amount of pride in their being the battalion screw-ups. They rarely saluted superior officers, shirked their work details, pulled jokes on the more sensitive or easily-riled Marines, and found ways to skip out on other exercises. Most of the time, all they wanted to do was shoot on the range or play in the war games with the rest of the unit. Teo and Frost made sure both of them did not get away with it all that often.

At the end of the day, Ocampo and Steele would sit on his bunk playing poker and smoking cigarettes. Sometimes they wouldn't even talk, just slap the cards on the blanket until one of them won. Then they would pick them all up, reshuffle, and start playing again. By the time the call for lights rang out, they had gone through nearly a dozen games and four packs of cigarettes.

He missed that skinny bugger; he wondered what Ocampo would have thought of the squad now. Wright and Teo were dead, Frost was in charge, and they had iced more rebels and Covenant than they could count. What would he have thought of their actions during the rest of the Skopje campaign? Would he have broken down under so many years of nonstop warfare; he liked to think he wouldn't.

The more he thought about him, the more he remembered Skopje and the night he died. It wasn't that he wanted to; his mind began to crawl back to it, then race towards that night. Everyone was scared, excited, and disgusted all at once. There was no word for it, at least not one he could find.

There were so many bodies that night. In room after room, across the courtyard, up in the hills, there were bodies. Ripped apart by bullets, blown up, bludgeoned; they were hideous to look at. It was not the killing that disturbed him most, it was seeing the bodies afterwards. Steele still wasn't sure why; maybe he just didn't want to face the consequences of his actions.

He took a puff on his cigarette again. As he brought his hand up, he noticed it was shaking a little and his knuckles were bruised. Steele closed his eyes and tried to imagine it never happened. But he could see them all; the girl with her head blown open, her horrified frozen face, and the dozens of bodies in front of her, shot in the back. The wounds were so hot and the air so cold, steam rose from the opened, bleeding flesh. But it was swept away from the snowy winds.

Steele leaned forward and covered his eyes.

* * *

Word Count: 6,155

**Comment Responses**

**TheShadeOps**: That's sort of the establishing theme for the first few chapters. Give you a glimpse of the past, drawing parallels between it and the most recent events, and have our characters ruminate in it. As for finding her artwork, I made a primer on the Vox-Taps forum of how to get to her work. But you're essentially going to go to her profile on DA, find the tab that says 'Gallery,' then find a Gallery Folder called 'Fanarts Extravaganza.' All three pieces should be in and amongst the other fanarts she's made, although one of them, 'Unbalanced,' is locked by mature content so you'll need an account with the mature content turned on to see it.

**Kabuto S. Inferno**: Thanks for the tip! I thought the best way to start off the new story was to flesh out the myriad details sprinkled throughout the first story from several perspectives. It'll be the theme of these opening chapters, in the same way the last three chapters of _I'm Alone _had a theme regarding future, present, and past. But I'm glad you're looking forward to it.

**MightBeGone**: Oh, I haven't been too far away. Glad you're pumped for the new story, and yeah, it's a bit of a theme for now. It's good to see you, man.

**longmoonedraptor**: Thank you very much, I really appreciate that. I think with a more focused story, better editing, and a more focused setting/plot line, yes, it'll garner its fair share of attention. Granted, the first story ended up being way more popular than I ever imagined! But thanks for your support!


	4. Chapter 4: Armor

Chapter 4: Armor

* * *

It was morning on Reach.

Cold winds swept down from the jagged Highland Mountains, through sprawling forests, and over long valleys. Oceans of short, pale grass swayed and roiled like ocean water. In the fields, flocks of Moa raised their heads as gust after gust ruffled their feathers. Deep in the woods, wolves howled and darted in between the trees. Birds of prey circled overhead and their squawking echoed throughout many mountain ridges, gullies, and crags.

The sun shone, warmly and brightly, for a short while. There was not a cloud in the sky. One might have gazed up and hoped for a long, sunny day that would fight the chill. Instead, the wind carried fog down from the mountaintops and guided heavy, gray clouds through the sky. Slowly, like a crawling snake, fog filled up the gulleys and riverbeds cutting through the mountains. It dug into the forests, obscuring the trees and vast underbrush. When it came off the mountains, it drew across the land like a blanket being drawn to the chin. Above, the dark clouds filled the sky and obscured the sun. Far away, beyond the Highlands Mountains thunder rumbled and lightning slashed through the clouds.

Encroaching fog quickly enveloped Fairchild Field, covering its many hangars, administrative officers, control towers, warehouses, and barracks. Aircraft ranging from Pelican and Albatross dropships to Falcon VTOL's and Skyhawk jumpjets, disappeared. Pilots, mechanics, and Army troopers performing their duties all over the facility were swallowed by the mist. Beyond the airfield, Military Reservation 01478-B stood, ominous and imposing. But the fog drove on, overcoming the infirmary and surrounding structuring before covering the walled, circular facility itself.

Within, the occupants remained undeterred by the fog. Over seventy trainees were practicing hand-to-hand combat drills in the field beside the Pillars of Loki. The air was alive with drill instructors barking orders at them and the shouts of vicious fighting on the part of the young trainees. Fists collided with cheeks and stomachs, while sweeping feet knocked opponents of their feet. Hands were lowered, grasped, and the trainees regained their footing. When a mistake was made by one or both trainees, an instructor stepped in between them. He grabbed them by their black collars, widened his furious eyes, and screamed in their faces. Flecks of spit landed on trainees' cheeks and chins as they took the beratement without emotion. When it was over, the trainees were threatened with the loss of dinner and the fighting resumed.

Other SPARTAN trainees were practicing more advanced CQC techniques with instructors. Pin reversal, grappling, and takedowns were demonstrated and performed. But the trainees did not fight with one another, but instead their handlers. Veteran drill instructors, hardened by so many years of training and experience fighting the Insurrection, attacked the young trainees. Time after time, the instructors overpowered them through brute force and strength. Noses were bloodied, lips cracked, eyes blackened, teeth broken, and skin bruised. Rising with tears in their eyes, trainees lunged at their instructors or braced for a renewed assault. Instructors prevailed again and again, throwing and pinning trainees. But they got back up and kept up the fight. The teams were mixed that day, so teammates found themselves fighting alongside other trainees they normally didn't work closely with. Some even fought each other.

Carris-137 raised her fists in front of her and braced her feet. The boot heels dug deep into the soil. Her blue eyes gazed back at three separate opponents, each edging closer to her with their fists up. On the right was Kelly, Linda was in the center, and Fred was on the left. Each face was marked already from hard hits and falls.

Fred lunged first, throwing a hard fist. Carris blocked it with her forearm, then flattened her opposite hand and hit him hard in the face. As he stumbled, Kelly and Linda charged at him. They held hands, stretching their arms out to knock Carris down. Instead of evading, Carris formed an X with her arms as the two arms struck. Instead of knocking her down, it broke the two girls' stride for just a moment. It was all she needed. Carris brought her elbow down on their clasped hands; it was like a hammer falling on a nail head. Crying out, the girls' hands separated. Reaching back, she hooked her left arm around Linda's neck and brought her into a chokehold. With her free hand, she snatched Kelly by the forearm and with sheer strength, threw her onto the ground so hard she nearly wrenched the trainee's shoulder out. But Kelly was as fast a thinker as she was on foot. Flattening out on her back, she reared a leg back and tried to kick Carris in the knee.

Carris crouched so her thigh absorbed the impact. She could take it better there than in a joint; it was pure muscle. Suddenly a pair of arms quickly coiled around her neck. Fred had recovered. In the same instant, Linda stopped struggling and turned in Carris's grasp. She began hitting her in the side with her fist. As well, Kelly was still kicking her, trying to hit a weaker point from the terrible angle she was in. It all hurt, but Carris could take it. Leaning her head forward, she brought it back sharply, slamming right back into Fred's nose. The shock loosened his grasp somewhat, but he was very tough. She did it once, twice more, and that finally Fred was so dazed he stumbled back.

Still holding Kelly's arm, she stood, stepped back, and yanked Kelly hard. Kelly was forced to roll over. Kelly attempted to kneel, but as soon as she did, Carris kicked her in the face. She then spun around, dragging Kelly by her arm, and then released her towards Fred. He was just getting up as Kelly flew into him, sending them both tumbling.

A jab in her side reminded Carris that Linda was still in her grasp. Loosening the chokehold, she grabbed Linda by the collar, grinned, and gut-punched her. Linda keeled over, the wind knocked out of her by that one blow. Grabbing her by the chest and groin, Carris picked the orange-haired trainee up over her head and threw her at Fred and Kelly. Both were still trying to untangle themselves from one another. Linda sent them into a heap of limbs.

But Kelly managed to spring onto her feet and dash at Carris. She covered the distance in just a few strides, nearly reaching a sprint in seconds. Her ability was astounding to Carris, even in the midst of the duel. Kelly threw nearly a dozen jabs; Carris struggled to block them. She simply was not as fast. Soon, the hits were falling in the soft parts of her side, sending shockwaves of deep pain reverberating through her torso.

Widening the distance would give her an advantage, a brief respite to go from the defensive to the offensive. However, she could not break away as Kelly was too close. She kept her arms close to her sides, but just as quickly unleashed a flurry of quick blows. But as she gave ground, Carris began to get a feel for the pattern. Two quick jabs to the face, which she could block, then four more to her sides before she could bring her arms down. Two upwards, four at level height, two upwards, four at level height.

Kelly went to punch, and Carris feigned a block. Instead she reversed her hand and caught Kelly's fist. Immediately, she squeezed as hard as she could. Screaming out in pain, Kelly tried to pry Carris's fingers from her hand. But her grasp was like that of a vise and there was no undoing. So she stamped on Carris's feet and feebly struck her with her free hand. Each blow carried less weight and coordination than the previous. Eventually, her eyes bulged with the agony and her attempts to strike became more frantic. The pain resonating in her coursed down her arm and flooded the rest of her body, even her mind.

It was a lesson that CPO Mendez taught her. 'Use pain to control your opponent. If you can force them to focus on nothing but that pain, they will falter in every regard.' So Carris squeezed and squeezed.

Eventually, her hand went to Carris's throat and tried to crush it. Instead of hitting her, Carris slowly reached up, carefully wrested Kelly's grasp from her neck, and then began turning the arm backwards. Kelly gritted her teeth and a long, ragged, moan of pain passed through her lips as Carris forced her arm back and back. The force was so great that Kelly was forced onto her knees. Towering over her, Carris reared her head back, and brought it down right on Kelly's forehead.

Dazed, Kelly fell backwards, clutching her face. Carris felt a gash on her forehead open and blood began to trickle down her face. As Fred got to his feet, he charged at her. Wiping the blood from her eyes, Carris leaned forward and waited for the impact. Fred slammed into her with the force of a Maglev train. Were it not for Carris bracing herself and maintaining her center of gravity, the rush would have turned into a tackle. Grunting with effort, bent over, and his arms wrapped around her center, Fred struggled to take her off her feet and onto the back. Carris dug her feet into the ground, but he was so strong that he was pushing her backwards. Her face turned red from exertion, she inhaled and held the breath, then bared her teeth. Once more, she planted her heels. This stopped Fred.

Before he could move, she raised her elbow and brought it down right between his shoulders blades. Fred hollered as he recoiled. Carris delivered an uppercut, a left hook, followed by a right, then two cross hits. Fed was so demoralized and stunned he could not bring himself to duck or block. In turn, Carris tackled him to the ground. He tried to raise his arms in a cross to cover his face, but she just swatted them with her hands and his arms fell. Balling her hands into fists, she began hitting him in the face.

That's when Linda charged and tackled her from the side. Carris saw her coming, turned, and wrapped her arms around her as it happened. The two grappled as they rolled across the hard ground. In the end, Linda ended up on top but it only lasted for a moment. Carris punched her on the right side and that stunned Linda briefly. Raising her legs, she forced Linda forward on top of her. Carris grabbed her, rolled her over, then squatted over her. She flipped Linda onto her belly, got on top of her, and pulled her leg forward over her back. Keeping her leg pinned with her arm, she took Linda by the opposite arm and yanked that bag so Linda's leg and front were being pulled towards her center. She began shouting in pain.

Kelly and Fred came at her together. Carris could see the fire in their eyes. Letting go of Linda, she sidestepped Fred's heavy fist, cracking him in the back with her elbow. Kelly attempted to duck and try to knock her off her feet with a sweeping kick. Instead, Carris caught Kelly's leg, yanked her off her feet, then threw her into Fred just as he turned. As he stumbled, Carris punched him in the face again, and then forced him down hard on top of Linda. All three trainees lay in a heap, panting.

Stepping back, Carris raised her fists and bounced on her feet, waiting for them to get up. Groaning, gasping for air, and wincing at the slightest movement, they attempted untangle themselves.

"Well done, One-Three-Seven."

Carris dropped her guard and spun around. She stood at attention as one of the other instructors approached. He was dressed in a crisp olive drab heavy-duty training uniform, rather than standard PT shirt and shorts on lighter training details.

The instructor who approached Petty Officer First Class Damien Losa. He was a tall man, broad in the chest but slimmer at the waist. Rippling with muscle, his fatigue shirt seemed almost too tight. While most of the other instructors were clean shaven or grew mustaches, he had a ragged, choppy beard. Rumors circulating around the trainees stipulated he was once a special operative in one of the myriad deep covert units that populated Naval Special Warfare Command. Many were known to sport thick beards and long hair to obscure their identities and fit into local populations; perhaps Losa had not kicked the habit.

He stood right in front of her, his hazel eyes glaring into her's. When he smiled, the corners of his eyes wrinkled and his cheekbones rose.

Saluting her back, he rested his opposite hand on her shoulder. Carris glanced at it and saw the golden wedding band on his ring finger. She looked back up at him as he tapped his temple. "You're strong, but you didn't beat them just because you are. You thought on your feet, improvised, and adapted. You know when to implement a tactical move and when to utilize brute force. If you can combine a sharp mind, a strong body, and diverse skills, you will always achieve victory.

"Yes, sir!" Carris shouted, holding her chin up high. Although her face betrayed no emotion, she felt very proud.

But then Losa's hand closed on her shoulder. It did not hurt, but it was a tight grasp.

"Don't forget, however, you stood alone. Strength comes from numbers, but just the mere mathematics. A unit that gels and cooperates, that works together, is stronger than anything into this great, wide galaxy. An individual can obtain victory, but teamwork keeps you alive." He pointed at them. "They worked together, taking pressure off one another and occupying your attention so they could rest, recover, and renew the offensive. If they hadn't fought together, if they hadn't fought for _each other_, they could not be standing."

Carris looked over her shoulder and saw that all three were standing up. Fred was being supported by Linda slightly as he checked on Kelly's hand.

She watched them for a moment before looking back at Losa. He smiled at her. "Be there for them, and they'll be there for you. Your teammates are better than any armor."

"Yes, sir."

Carris turned around, ran a hand over her short black hair, and walked over to Kelly, Fred, and Linda. "That was a good match," she said. All three stared at her, then they smiled.

"We'll get you one day," Kelly said.

"I'm glad you're with us," Fred added. Linda did not speak, but she offered a respectful nod and an amiable smile.

Before the conversation could continue, Carris saw the emotion in their eyes changed. Their features dropped, as if aghast. For a moment, she thought they were about to attack. But then she heard someone moving behind her. She could feel motion in the air. Before she could turn around, she felt one arm wrenched above her and the other wrapped behind her. A booted foot swept her feet out from under her and she landed face-down, hard. As she wriggled, she felt Losa press his sharp knee into her back.

"The fuck do you think you're doing, 137!?" he shouted. "Training does not stop!"

Carris didn't know if he was trying to promote his logic by putting himself in a position for Fred, Kelly, and Linda to assist. But she was not going to wait to find out. Bringing her leg back, she cocked it like a shotgun, and shot it upwards into his groin. The strike was not powerful, but it caught him off guard. Utilizing her split-second advantage, she free her left arm, brought back her elbow, and struck Losa in the sternum. He still had her right arm, but Carris scrambled to her feet. Before she could turn, he snatched her other arm and brought it behind her. Spinning her around, he charged her towards one of the Pillars of Loki.

She planted her feet, forcing his sprint into a slog. Gaining that control, she hopped off her feet, planted them against the Pillar, and pushed backwards. It was enough to tip Losa backwards. Falling on his back, he released her and she rolled over on top of him. Just as she was about to land another blow, he flipped her to the side, forced her onto her back, and attempted to pin her again.

This time she was ready. As he tried to press his hand on her face, she made a fist and shoved his arm. He was holding that arm with his other hand for maximum weight, thus it was his only support. Falling to the side, she grabbed his throat, forced him up, and grabbed his belt buckle. Grinding her teeth, groaning with exertion, veins bulging, and with sweat pouring down her face, she managed to take him off his feet. With a great cry, she threw him back towards the Pillar of Loki.

Losa hit the Pillar diagonally and back-first. There was a horrible, sickening _crunch _sound. His eyes bulged, his mouth opened as if he were about to gasp or cry out, the color left his skin, and he crumpled over onto the ground.

Instinctively, Carris brought her fists up to prepare for another attack. But Losa remained motionless. Slowly, she dropped her fists. Fred, Linda, and Kelly assembled around her.

It was Linda who took the first step. She ran over to Losa, knelt beside him, and held his wrist. Then she took two fingers and pressed them to his neck, right below the end of his jawline. Slowly, she looked back, eyes wide.

"Chief Petty Officer Mendez!" Kelly cried. She ran and Carris watched her. Kelly approached a cadre of instructors assembled around the imposing CPO Mendez. He was watching another group of trainees and instructors, arms folded across his chest. Dr. Halsey was with him too, clad in a white lab coat and watching the same group with interest.

Carris could not hear Kelly speaking to them, but she saw Dr. Halsey's eyes widen and Mendez drop his arms. Both the Chief Petty Officer, doctor, and the entire group of instructors looked in her direction simultaneously. All jogged over, crying, 'Corpsman, up!'

Mendez and the corpsman ushered Linda out of the way as they knelt beside Losa. The corpsman began taking out his medical kit. He began speaking to Mendez in hushed tones. Other instructors and trainees began approaching and gathering around.

Carris watched in silent shock. She was not sure what was happening. A hand fell on her shoulder. Its touch was soft, but not tender.

"Come Carris, I think you've trained enough for today," Dr. Halsey said in an even tone. But Carris could not tear herself away. She watched and listened, trying to understand. Eventually, she stepped forward until she was right behind Mendez and the corpsman. The latter had stopped working and was sadly packing up his materials. Mendez was gazing at Losa, one hand resting on his knee. He shook his head.

"S-sir?" Carris managed to say. She realized her lips were quivering and her hands were shaking. For the first time in many years, she felt very scared. Fear billowed in her core, seizing her heart, clouding her mind, and filled her extremities like fog filling the gullies, ravines, and valleys of the Highland Mountains.

Mendez turned, looked at her, and stood up. Authoritative, he clasped his hands behind his back and tilted back his head so he was looking down his nose at her.

"One-Three-Seven, return to your barracks immediately."

"Sir, I-"

"That's an _order_ trainee," he said firmly, but quietly. "Go."

Carris's eyes fell to Losa. He was not moving. The corpsman covered his eyes, rubbing them. A moment later, he reached down and opened Losa's blouse. Reaching in, he pulled up his metal dog tags. Just as he began to pull on them, Carris Dr. Halsey take her hand. She was turn around and was being led towards the barracks. As she walked, she looked at all the faces she was accustomed to; Fred, Linda, Kelly, John, Daisy, Joshua, Cal, and so many more. Turning, she craned her neck to try and look at Losa again. But a phalanx of instructors were lining up in front of him, obscuring him from view.

###

All the other trainees had gone to their mandatory class for that day, but she was relieved from going. She asked if she was confined to quarters and the answer was no; she had the choice not to attend class, that was all. When she pressed, and asked why, CPO Mendez informed her Losa was dead. The fifth and sixth vertebrae were completely severed and he died instantly. There was no saving him.

Mendez did not stay long. He told the UNSC was a well-oiled machine, but even the best-kept machines suffered malfunctions. Accidents, even prepared and trained for her, were sometimes impossible to avoid. 'They just happen,' Mendez punctuated before he left. He seemed pressed for time despite his concern. Often, he gave lectures, imparting his personal wisdom as well as military ethos. He devoted so much time to the trainees, yet he seemed uncomfortable that he could not do it at that moment. It was not so much trying to comfort her as it was a brief rationalization to soften the news. Somehow, Carris knew he or someone else would be back in the next few days to speak with her again.

Unable to sit in the stifling barracks, Carris thought she would go to the range. Slowly, she swung her legs out and began walking towards the door. Her legs seemed to wobble and her hands kept shaking. When she opened the door, she put her foot down on the step leading up to it.

As soon as the door shut behind her, she collapsed on the edge of the step and began to cry. Balling her hands it into fists and covering her eyes with them, she sobbed. Tears streamed down her cheeks, cutting through the dust picked up from fighting in the dirt. When the wind blew, it made the tears sting her eyes and cheeks as it was very chilly. Sometimes, she cried so hard she lost her voice, so the tears fell and her body shook, but no sound came from her wide open mouth.

She could not comprehend it; she felt so much yet felt so little. Killing was what she was training to do; one day she would fight Insurrectionists. They would have spouses and children, and she was being trained to ignore it all. Yet, Losa was an instructor; no, he was more, a mentor. He was giving her skills to survive and carry her duties as a soldier. Now he was dead and it was her fault. What kind of student slayed their teacher and got away with it? They kept saying it was an accident, an accident, an accident, but it did not _feel _like an accident. Carris wanted to die too, it seemed like the only way she would gain redemption. How would she do it? Jump from one of the Pillars of Loki and break her neck? Slip into the facility's armor and shoot herself in the head? Maybe she could sneak out of the facility and just walk, walk, and walk until she collapsed, dying long, slow, and alone in the hinterland of Reach. That would be fitting; an unsoldierly death for a weak, murderous trainee.

But it was her survival training, the rigorous, grueling concept of self-preservation instilled by instructors like Mendez, Losa, and so many others that kept her seated on the steps, sobbing painfully. Each sob was more painful than the last; it wracked her strong frame, made her shake, and burned her throat. Her eyes stung from so many tears and the cold wind.

When she finally lifted her head and dropped her hands, she gasped for air. It was as if she had not breathed for a month. Using the back of her hands to wipe her glimmering blue eyes, she noticed a figure a short way off. It was Dr. Halsey. She wore a white lab coat and gray hoodie and blue trousers. Her black hair came down to the middle of her neck and her blue eyes were very cold. She was a rather beautiful woman with fine features, an elegant nose, soft cheekbones, and small pink lips. One saw her everywhere, usually with a data pad in hand. This time, it was tucked under an arm.

For a while, she stared at Carris. Rarely did she show emotion. In that exchange of gazes, Carris could see little movements, twitches, in her face. It was if she was trying to smile or raise her voice to say something. But she did nothing but stand and stare.

It became too much. Tears poured down her cheeks. All of a sudden, Carris found herself running. She ran and ran, pumping her arms, sprinting as fast as she could. It felt as though she was being chased, but she knew it was a foolish thought. There was no one. She was alone.

She only stopped when she was at the beginning of the obstacle course. It was a field of sharp gravel, leading to a series of low-to-the-ground barbed wire tunnels flanked by machine guns. At the end were the Pillars of Loki and the larger area around it.

With tears still in her eyes, Carris hastily untied her boots. She threw one away with a cry of effort, followed by the next. Ripping off her socks, she bolted across the gravel. Each step fell heavily and she felt the uneven edges of the gravel slice the bottoms of her feet. When she got to the end, she dove into one of the barbed wire tunnels. Normally, instructors manned the interval positions on either side and fired live ammunition over the heads of the trainees. Both positions were empty and the machine guns were absent. She crawled savagely through, clawing into the dirt and dragging herself forward. The ground the barbed wire tunnels sat upon seemed to always be muddy or clogged with dirt. By the time she made it out, her black training uniform was covered with muck and her face was dirty. Tears cut swathes through the grime.

Then, she stopped. She was right in front of the Pillars of Loki. If she looked to the right, she could see the exact Pillar she threw Losa against. Such a sight was horrifying to her.

She looked up at the ten meter tall Pillar in front of her. Immediately, she jumped on it and wrapped her arms and legs around it. With great effort, she began sliding and clambering her way up. It was a herculean effort, requiring every ounce of strength in her body. Stopping to rest was impossible; if one stopped, they would fall. Grunting and snarling like a struggling animal, she finally managed to reach the flat top.

Balancing on it, she sprang to the next pole, and to the next, and the next. She didn't stop until she reached the sixth pole in the Pillars of Loki. She found her energy waning, her strength fleeting. A strong wind came, bringing with it fog. Tottering, she squatted down on top of the Pillar and wrapped her arms around herself. For some time, she gazed at the mountains surrounding the facility and the fog as it rolled down the rocky, jagged slopes. Then she hung her head low, and the tears fell from her eyes, running down the Pillar. She felt so cold.

* * *

Carris sat on the cot in her quarters. She had removed her armor and accompanying materials, which were mounted on a stand provided by the base engineers. It was facing her, nearly assembled on the mount. Her blue eyes did not leave the golden visor.

She did not know how long she stared at her own armor. It was easy to remember when she first received it. At first it seemed so foreign, as if her body resided in a different dimension that one she existed in. One could not tell if they were floating or being crushed. While others marveled at the feeling and the acute response of the armor, she found it so strange. But with time, it became her home. One did not feel anything; whether it was rain, snow, or wind, whether it was the heat of the cold, or a nearby explosion. She could stand in a sandstorm or a blizzard, and feel absolutely nothing save for the modulated temperature provided by the thermal layer.

More than anything else, she felt safe in it. Carris adopted the creed of the Spartans, their duty as soldiers and defenders of humanity. Even if she was not born for this life, she was _made _for it. Built, constructed, molded, trained for it. All she was taught, all she learned, it was imbued in that armor. It was a part of her, and she was a part of it. Her life was that armor. Or at least, she used to think so.

Years were spent in that suit of armor. Now, she seemed to rarely put it on. Her life was that of the Marine, rather than the Spartan.

Destiny? Fate? Such ideas were above her station; she decided that long ago. Being a Spartan was what she wanted. But, being with the squad, that was something she wanted too.

She looked down. Her digital camouflage fatigue jacket and trousers were standard-issue Marine-greens. So were the black boots. If one looked at her, all they would see was a rather tall Marine. She could care less about being a Marine; it was those people who were Marines she wanted to be.

Being confined to quarters felt familiar enough. She was alone with the Prowler Corps for so long, she got used to the lack of noise, distant bodies, leering gazes, and the complete absence of any conversation. She was always spoken to, never with. No praise, no punishment; just orders.

When the ONI officers looked at her, they saw her armor. To them, she was a military asset. All that made her human was easily and entirely ignored and detached. Rarely did they see her face or hear her voice. Some officers who gave her orders never saw her without a helmet on; she must have appeared a drone to them.

But when those Marines looked at her, they didn't see the armor. They saw _her_. They did not say, "One-Three-Seven," they said, 'Carris,' or 'C.' As they did with each other, they tapped her on top of the helmet, patted her shoulder, bumped fists, and high-fived her. What made them so kind? So open? It was almost as if they were children.

Carris looked at the single window. It was still early in the morning, far too early for most personnel to be up. But she saw her reflection in the glass, then saw those ten faces gazing back. They were all grinning at her, and she smiled back. Moments passed and the faces began to fade, one after the other. Frost was the second to last to leave and Steele was the final; their smiles disappeared by then.

They were more than a squad; they were her friends. She vowed to keep them alive, and she knew they would die to save her too. Losa was right about that, she never doubted him. But she did not see it the way other Spartans did. It took his death, decades worth of time, and a rabble of misfit Marines to make her finally understand it. She would always be there for them, and they for her. Carris knew this in the deepest part of her heart.

But she saw the gunfire flashing and the bodies falling in the snow. Blood oozed and smoke rose from the wounds.

Carris leaned forward, pressing her hands together. She could not betray her squad. But could she betray the creed, the ethos, embedded in her personage from the time she was a little girl? For days, she wrestled with the question. It was beginning to torment her and she was having trouble falling asleep. So she sat up all night, gazing out the window, trying to figure it out.

The door to her barracks opened. It was Captain De Vos. She was holding a plate of steaming food.

"A bit early for chow," Carris said, looking back toward the window.

"Orders are orders," De Vos said, walking into her quarters and setting it on the desk across from her bed. Beside it was the hulking suit of armor.

De Vos always looked impressive. She was made of muscle but was surprisingly lean. Her fatigues were crisp, clean, and immaculate. No crease could be found on her blouse or trousers, which was tucked neatly into her black boots. Even though she always held her head high, she never looked down on soldiers. Contact was eye-to-eye, cordial, respectful, and by the book. Carris admired the pathfinder-turned-ODST; she was an officer she would follow into battle no matter how dire the consequences.

She turned around, smiling quizzically. "You know it wasn't confiscated because it's too heavy, right?"

"That was my first guess," Carris replied. De Vos pulled the chair from the desk, turned it around, and sat down. Crossing her legs professionally, she rested her clasped hands on her lap.

"Major Holst and I had the privilege of fighting with a unit of your troops, call sign Blue Team, once. I used to think the Helljumpers were the best outfit in the entire UNSC. That day I watched a few soldiers turn the tide of a losing battle in just a few hours. I realized, then, we were not even close. They're worth twenty experienced ODSTs, maybe even more." Her smile faded and she inhaled sharply. "General Amsterdam has fought alongside them as well, which is why she wanted your armor confiscated and _you _restrained at all times. I convinced her not to do either."

De Vos paused here, seemingly trying to solicit a response from Carris. But she refused to make eye contact with the Helljumper; Carris's gaze rested firmly on the glass of the window. She did not see the glass, nor the raindrops pouring down, or even the dark sky beyond. One could look, but they could choose when and what they wanted to see. Carris saw nothing.

Seeing she was getting no response, De Vos continued. "She's still worried you may don your armor and try to break your boys out of the stockade. Which is why there are still ten very confused Army grunts standing outside your quarters at all times. Just in case you try something."

Her tone changed. It was not snide nor goading, but there was a clear challenge in it. It was one Carris could not shy from.

"Ten wouldn't be enough to stop me even if I didn't have my armor," she finally said, but her eyes remained fixated on the window.

"Perhaps I should recommend boosting the security detail to twenty men?"

"I'm not going to attack fellow soldiers," Carris said, maintaining an even tone. "My duty is to keep them alive."

"I know," De Vos said, "that's why I told her not to take her armor or put you in cuffs. Your integrity is not in question."

"Of course it is," Carris said, "they're questioning my loyalty."

"Loyalty to your team, or loyalty to the principles that embody the UNSC." De Vos folded her arms across her chest. "Personally, I don't question either. You're a good soldier. You've saved lives and become an invaluable member of this task force." De Vos leaned forward. "No matter how this turns out, you will not be transferred."

"Too much ONI paperwork, I gather," Carris mused. De Vos smiled.

"That's above my pay grade."

Carris smiled a little. De Vos's disappeared. "I've made sure you haven't been treated as a prisoner, I've kept Amsterdam from barging in here demanding answers, and I've made sure discharge is impossible. It has not been easy. Please, tell me, just what happened that night. There were no helmet feeds, no comms during the incident. Waters saw nothing, Frost and Steele are under trial; you're the only one who can resolve this matter."

De Vos un-crossed her legs and sat forward. "We need Waters, we need those boys, and we need you. But we can't put our needs above military law. So please, let's put an end to this, and try to come out of this affair with some dignity. I've not seen it, but I'm sure your record is spotless, and it should stay-"

"It's not," Carris said sharply. Silence grew between the pair for a short while. Finally, Carris at back and ran a hand through her thick, black hair. "Tell me this Captain; if Major Holst was to do commit an act deemed illegal by military law, would you turn him over. He's your commanding officer and your friend, and your troops worship him."

Carris pointed at her. "You tell me what you would do, and I'll tell you what I saw."

* * *

**Word Count**: 6,260

**Author's Note**: About an hour late, but it's here all the same. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I certainly enjoyed exploring the concept of the Spartans training and the minor lore related to Carris's background. It was challenging but I enjoyed the research.

**Comment Responses: **

**Qrs-jg: **Soldiers react in thousands of different ways to killing. I've done as much research as possible to construct realistic reactions. As for Steele, and the others in general, I wanted there to be a conflict of the UNSCMC's aggressive training and their own moral compasses; a thirst for combat but a disdain for killing humans. I wanted it to be tumultuous, changing from moment-to-moment. In the end, Steele would like to believe and portray himself as indifferent to killing other humans, but even he is not immune to it. For what'll happen to who, you'll have to wait and see. It's good to see you, Qrs-jg.


	5. Chapter 5: Bandages

Chapter 5: Bandages

* * *

Jasmine Ebrahimi folded the top of the top sheet of her cot. It was a soft, olive drab blanket with the logo of the UNSC Navy on it in black. The bottom sheet was a crisp white, as was the pillow, and the frame was a plain metal gray.

There was not a single crease and there was no uneven length. Satisfied, she smiled, pushed her glasses back up her nose, and stepped back. Arms akimbo, she turned around and observed the room.

The walls were a sort of ochre colored, or a far more muted tan, she could not tell. It was a highly typical military color, even for the Navy wing of Luna Academy. Being on the tenth floor of the cadet barracks, there were two large windows at the opposite end of the quarters. Pale light shone through the thick glass. Sharing the same wall as the door were two desks, one one either side. Both were moderately sized, with room for a lamp, an Academy-issued terminal, a small office basket for paperwork, and a recharging station for a data pad. A desk chair complemented both. Above each desk was a pair of shelves. To the right of the leg space were three drawers, each increasing in size further to the bottom. In between the desk and the cots, which were in the corners by the window, were bureaus. Each side had one and it was large enough to hold all of the different outfits a cadet required; several standard issue gray uniforms as well as two sets of PT clothing. On the floor was a wide, olive drab rug. Besides such a plain adornment, there was a painting on one of the walls featuring a Navy flotilla from centuries ago. Five glistening, silver warships were at home among the blackness of space and the glitter of stars.

It was a relief to finally be at Luna Officer Training School. It was a prestigious facility, with many names; Luna OCS, Luna Academy, Academy at Mare Nubium. But no such names mattered to Jasmine, as it was her home now. For the next four years, it was home.

Taking the last of her civilian attire from her travel bag, she placed it neatly in the bottom drawer. Then, she pushed the bag under her bed. Most would have kicked it underneath with their foot. Instead, Jasmine knelt and slid it so it was packed neatly at the foot. Getting back up, she picked up a stack of books, which she neatly arranged from smallest to largest along the bottom shelf. Another stack was placed on the top shelf; unlike the books below, these ones were personal. However, they were all devoted to medicine; military medical evolution and innovations, treating battlefield trauma, textbooks on neural implants, robotic prosthetic's and physical therapy regarding them.

Just as she propped the last one up, there was a _click_, and the door hissed open. Jasmine turned to greet her fellow cadet.

She seemed tomboyish; her height was average and she was lean, but she seemed strong. The light gray cadet uniform she wore was crisp, clean, and styled immaculately. Freckles covered her cheeks and her skin was a natural shade of tan. Her dirty blonde hair was thick and voluminous; it was pulled back into a military regulation bun, but a few locks were loose and fell down to her neck.

For a moment, she lingered just beyond the doorway. She seemed to be taking in the room. Her emerald green eyes sparkled, but her gaze was so commanding and intense. Jasmine was taken aback and found herself unable to greet her.

Eventually, the newcomer turned and dropped her two travel bags. She managed a small smile.

"Sorry, I didn't see you there."

"Oh, uh, well, no problem," Jasmine said with a shy shrug. The cadet turned to her cot and began unpacking her bags. For a few moments, Jasmine watched with mild interest. Unsure of what to do, she cleared her throat.

"I'm Jasmine Ebrahimi," she greeted. Cadets were notified of their roommates far before they actually arrived at the academy. Unless she did not read her notification two months earlier, she already knew Jasmine's name, branch, and selected and projected military career path. Jasmine already knew her roommate's information: Vivian Waters, Navy, space naval warfare. She was going to be one of the officer's of a line ship; that could range from the navigator to being the XO. But it seemed so antisocial, so inhuman, not to greet and ask for one's name all the same.

"Waters," was all she said. She continued to unpack her belongings. Methodically, she arranged a few books on the shelves as well as her academy-issued texts. A few holographic picture frames were set up; Jasmine could not see them perfectly from where she sat, but one showed six girls, and another showed what looked like her family.

"Oh, you have hard cover books too? Lots of students are just downloading everything on their data pads," Jasmine said with a nervous chuckle. Vivian said nothing. Gazing at the freshly stacked books, she could not help but amble over. Standing on the tips of her toes, she tried to read the titles. "What genre do you prefer?"

There was no answer. When she finally turned, she found Vivian glaring at her very intensely. Cowed, Jasmine cleared her throat and took a few steps back. As she did, she smiled sheepishly and shrugged. "Sorry, didn't mean to crowd me. So, what made you pick the Navy?"

Vivian continued to stay silent, going over to the bureau and carefully organizing her clothes in the drawer. Rubbing the back of her head, Jasmine sighed. "Well, just let me know if you need a hand."

To avoid standing idly and awkwardly, she took one of the books from the shelf, sat on her bed, and began flipping the pages. Even thought she was a fast reader, she was entirely focused. Every so often, she would look up at Vivian as she fixed the bed sheets and unpacked her remaining belongings.

Jasmine hoped it would be different. It was just like her first year at medical school; living in an off-campus dormitory seemed ideal. There, she would find students like herself; private, quiet, and keen to study. But it seemed like the search requests she put into the university extranet portal were completely ignored. Instead, she was housed with a rowdy roommate who wanted nothing to do with her and was more interested in inviting men over. Night after night, all turned the volume up on her earphones to drown out the sounds of the squeaking bed frame and moans of pleasure. By the time second semester started, she applied, paid, and received a single room. Before that happened, nobody noticed her. Once she made the transition, everyone gossiped about the antisocial workaholic, who was so nervous and intimidated by the other boisterous student she always checked if anybody was around before refilling her water bottle at the communal bubbler. It didn't help that most of the rumors were true. All she could do was turn up the volume and drown it out.

With her new roommates, it seemed like the struggles of civilian university life were to repeat themselves in officer training school. Instead of sex-addicted, party-rocking teenagers, she would have to live with someone who was reserved, taciturn, and in no agreeable mood. Already, Jasmine envisioned filing the paperwork requesting a single room.

Disappointed, she reached over to the desk and retrieved her headphones. Plugging them into her second rate music player, she started listening to her playlist. Music tended to be very similar, utilizing less vocals and focusing more on rhythm and beats. Jasmine preferred longer, slower songs, with less energy than the typical high-paced rave-like synthesizer music students her age preferred. Flip music was still popular, but she had no interest.

Peeking up from her book, she saw Vivian sitting at her desk. She was reading too, except it was a textbook on ship-to-ship combat. Classes were not starting for two days and yet she was already studying. Looking back at her book, she felt silly to be reading a murder-mystery novel.

Jasmine glanced at her watch. The lunch hour in the barracks canteen was starting. She took one of the headphones from her ear.

"Hey, want to grab a bite-"

"Don't talk to me."

Without a response, Jasmine put her headphones back on, slid her book mark on the current page, and left.

She trundled through the halls, passing other fresh-faced, eager cadets drawn from Earth and her colonies. So many faces, so many smiles, so many shining eyes. It was difficult not to feel swept up in their upbeat emotions. Music served as a barrier between Jasmine and she drifted in between throngs and crowds. Roommates chatted with their neighbors in the doorways to their quarters. Others looked up friends from civilian life. A few embarrassed cadets impatiently waited for their parents to leave and avoided any displays of affection.

Going to the cafeteria, she found it nearly filled to capacity. There were rows, and rows, and rows of long tables lined with chairs. In between every five tables were a trio of great granite columns separated by about fifteen feet each. Huge, olive drab banners displayed enormous UNSC logos in white: a great eagle holding up its feathered wings, perched on a planet with a horizontal banner, furling upwards, with the acronym across it. Expecting a melting pot between the service branches at each table, Jasmine saw the tables were separatist. Nobody shared tables; they were all Navy, Marine, Army, or Air Force, there was no mingling.

Simply not in the mood to try elbow her way into a table or deal with the factionalism in the dining hall, she opted for the takeaway station with freshly packed meals. Grabbing a plastic container containing chicken salad with ranch dressing, a bag of potato chips, a soft drink, and a chocolate bar, she swiped her ID badge at the register and went back to the room.

When she got back in, she found Vivian still reading. For a moment, Jasmine felt bad that she did not bring her roommate anything. Even if her behavior in the first few minutes left much to be desired, and did not exactly warrant kindness, Jasmine couldn't help herself. Quiet as she was, Jasmine was raised to be kind.

"Do you want to split the chips?"

Vivian slowly looked up, turned her head, and glared at her. Jasmine turned away immediately. "Sorry," she mumbled. She sat on her bed, unpacked the salad, took the disposable utensils from the plastic wrapper taped to the side, and began eating. Still listening to music, she opened her book back up and continued reading. Ever the slow eater, she took her time, so engrossed in the book she almost forgot to chew. Skipping the chips and chocolate bar, she tossed those on her desk, finished the salad, and drained the shake. Dropping everything into the trash bin beside her desk, she got into a more comfortable position on her bed.

Glancing at her watch, she saw that over an hour had passed. At first, she paid no attention, but then she sat up. "Hey, we've got to go to the superintendent's speech in the West Atrium."

"Is it mandatory?" Vivian asked.

"Yes."

Sighing irritably, Vivian marked her page and stood up. Jasmine took off her music player and swung her legs out from the bed. "Why don't we go together?"

Vivian just buttoned the top of her tunic and stormed out. Jasmine stared at the door for a moment, then rubbed her temples. She fixed her glasses and left too.

Like a rolling river rapid, cadets streamed through the halls. There was almost no space for one to raise their arms. Jasmine did really walk; she was swept along by the human current. Before she knew it, she was in the Atrium.

It was a massive chamber, wide and open in the center. More banners decorated the huge columns lining the sides and the walls. In the ceiling was a massive skylight; the Atrium was filled with pure white sunlight pouring through the glass. Normally, the Atrium was filled with tables, chairs, couches, and other stations allowing cadets to socialize and study. Instead, it was completely cleared and a temporary stage was erected at the far end wall, where four vertical banners featuring the individual icons of the UNSC service branches were hung up.

Assembled on either side of the stage were various high-ranking officers from the branches. Most were instructors, while a minority were other personnel visiting from off Luna.

It took some time, but eventually the dormitory's cadets were lined up inside the atrium. A cry rang out.

"Atten-_shun_!"

Everyone's heels clicked together and there was a machine-like snap of arms to the sides. All raised their chins and looked ahead. But the superintendent did not step up onto the stage. Instead, the cadets were amazed to see Vice Admiral Preston Cole approached the microphone stand.

He was ultimately impressive. His chest was very broad, his gray uniform was crisp, and the ribbon rack of his heart was adorned with row after row of ribbons and medals. His hair was regulation short, his square cheeks were freshly saved, and he maintained a steely squint. The man looked as if he was chiseled from stone.

"At ease," he said very gently, as if he was speaking to each cadet privately. Everyone reduced their posture and folded their hands behind their backs.

Vice Admiral Cole gazed out at them and nodded. "It was in the previous century I stood where you do now. I was a young man, surrounded by other young men and women. In your faces, I see them, I see the light they carried. Courage, bravery, selflessness, determination, resilience, and zeal to serve humanity. It is inspiring to see such traits still present in our young people, especially in the face of such adversity. One would imagine, as world after world slips away, and millions perish, we would give way to despair and resignation, or perhaps panic and desperation."

Here, he paused impressively. Inhaling sharply, he raised his chin slightly. He brought his hands forward, keeping them by his sides. "But humans are just not built that way," he said with steadfast determination. "Whether you have already seen service or have come straight from your civilian graduation, your true journey begins here. It matters not what branch you call home. Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force; you will embark upon a journey that will take you out among those stars to combat a ruthless foe."

His hands curled into fists. "Technology, science, they will not win this war. Those traits, that courage, bravery, selflessness, determination, resilience, and zeal, and the men and women who carry those core characteristics, will save humanity."

As he spoke his voice rose. The microphone, Jasmine realized, was a mere formality. The man spoke with such vigor, with such belief in his own words, that his voice could have filled the entire West Atrium and broken the skylight. But he paused again and regained his composure. "I will not lie to you. Our enemies are determined, vigorous, and are fueled by religious fervor to kill us all. Not all of you will survive. But I look into your eyes and know you are ready to make countless sacrifices, including the most ultimate."

Vice Admiral Cole held out his arms and motioned to the officers standing on either side of the stage. "These are men and women who have seen combat and carnage. They have fought, lost friends, and made sacrifices. You will learn from these soldiers, you will learn and you will know what you must do to protect Earth and her colonies. I hope one day soon, I can serve alongside you. Thank you."

He then stood at attention and saluted. Nobody needed to give the order this time. As if one living organism, every cadet snapped to attention and saluted back. Even after Vice Admiral Cole lowered his arm, they were still saluting. As he turned away and started heading back to the steps, somebody yelled, "Let's hear it for Admiral Cole!"

The atrium erupted in cheering, whistling, and applause. Even Jasmine could not help herself; he was humanity's greatest hero, who could not become overjoyed at his presence? At first, she thought he was going to avoid their wild gestures and frenzied calls. Instead ,he stopped, turned, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lip. For a moment, he stood there, just smiling and looking into their faces. Then, he thrust a fist into the air and all the cadets went crazy. If they were wearing caps, they would have been tossed in the air, Jasmine was certain of it. As happy as she was, she did not want to stay to see cadets start throwing their blouses or shoes towards the skylight.

Lowering her arm and with a fading smile, she turned and tried to head back towards the exit. Instead, she was blocked by the throngs of cadets pushing forward, still cheering and eager to catch a glimpse of the man. Someone bumped into her hair and her glasses dropped from her nose.

She dropped to her knees, trying to feel around to find them. A few cadets cussed at her, but she was too busy to notice. After a few moments, she spotted them behind an Army cadet. All her calls of 'excuse me,' were ignored or unheard.

"Hey, get out of the way!"

Jasmine looked up to see Vivian shove the Army cadet out of the way. The latter was far too focused on the Vice Admiral to care. Vivian stooped, picked up the glasses, and nonchalantly tossed them to Jasmine.

"Oh, thanks, whoa!"

Before she could even put them back on, Vivian grabbed her by the arm and led her out of the crowd. She was like a MagLev train, barreling through the cadets who could barely get out of the way. When they broke through the rear of the crowd, Vivian let go. Jasmine was glad for it, as her grip was so tight it nearly hurt.

Jasmine dusted off her glasses and put them back on. "Hey, thanks-"

"This isn't high school. You're in the military now. Act like it."

Jasmine watched her go down the hall, head down, hands balled into tight fists, shoulders hunched as if she was about to charge. All she could do was sigh.

###

Nightfall could not have come soon enough. Jasmine took a shower before going to bed. Her hair was still a little wet but she did not mind so much. It made her feel cool and her quarters was a bit stuffy anyways. The windows were open, so a cool breeze filtered into the room. Not quite tired enough to fall asleep, she turned on a small, unobtrusive reading light she attached to the headboard of the cot and read a book.

Fatigue came slowly. Yawning, she bookmarked the page, slid the book under her pillow, and flicked the light off. Closing her eyes, she waited for sleep to come. But it was a trick, and she laid awake for what seemed like hours.

Her emotions were all mixed up. Vice Admiral Cole's speech was still ringing in her ears and it made her heartbeat race. Never before had she felt so patriotic, but not towards any one nation-state's flag. It was a patriotism of species, to all of humanity. She was going to be a servant, a custodian, and she was proud. Then came the concern of her roommate, who seemed so engrossed in her studies and carried a huge chip in her shoulder, and the next few years seemed so difficult to manage. Homesickness, the paradoxical excitement and dread for classes to start, and the wonderful feeling of independence and adulthood all sank in together. Sleep would remedy all these feelings, bubbling up and crashing headlong into each other; until then, Jasmine thought reluctantly, she would have to entertain them.

She began wondering if listening to music would help her sleep. The music player and headphones were still on her desk, just an arm's length away. Just as she thought about reaching for them in the dark, she heard a short, ruffled sound. At first, she thought the wind managed to open a book and swept some of the pages over. But the sound occurred once more and she could tell it was shuffling paper but moving bed sheets.

Jasmine's heart beat a little faster, but her mind did not race away from her. Vivian was probably just readjusting her position under her blanket, nothing more.

Still, she did not lay back down. The sound came again, and again, and again, until it became continuous. Accompanying the rifling sheets was a squeaking strain on the bed frame. Then, there was whimpering. At first it was low and quick, then sharp and rapid. Finally, there was a short yell.

Without hesitation, Jasmine turned on her desk lamp. Vivian was wrapped up in her sheets, convulsing from head to toe. Her face seemed gripped by fear and her moth was open. Her legs began to thrash and she began to shriek in pain.

Throwing off the blanket, Jasmine leaped out of bed and tore the blanket from Vivian. She grabbed her by the shoulder and shook her. Then, Vivian's hands shot up and tried to shove Jasmine away. Fighting for control, Jasmine got onto the bed, managed to roll Vivian over, and put her into a hold. It was difficult and although she received training for such an incident, Jasmine was inexperienced. Improvising, she wrapped one arm around Vivian's middle and trapped her arm, while coiling her other around her still flailing arm, holding it upwards. Using her legs, she trapped Vivian's feet.

"Calm down, calm down, you're okay," Jasmine soothed, speaking right into her ear. "Everything's alright, everything's alright. You're in our room, you're on Luna. Talk to me, can you talk to me."

Vivian did not speak, but as Jasmine applied more weight on her pressure points, she ceased shaking. Instead, she began panting so fast she was nearly hyperventilating. Although she did not want to, Jasmine let go of the raised arm and pressed her hand to Vivian's forehead, cradling her head. "Shh. Everything's going to be fine. I've got you, don't worry."

Minutes ticked by. Eventually, Vivian's breathing slowed down. Jasmine leaned forward, craning her neck to see her face. Her eyes were wide open, glimmering like sparkling jewels as tears trickled down her face.

"I...I had a nightmare," she stammered as her voice was choked. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Do you want to try sitting up?"

Vivian sniffed hard and nodded. Slowly, Jasmine let go but kept an arm around Vivian's shoulders. Together, they sat up. Vivian's eyes, nose, and cheeks were very red. She sniffled constantly and swiped at her eyes, but the tears came on all the same. Jasmine rubbed her shoulder. "Do you want to try talking about it?"

"I lost some people very close to me a long time ago. I saw them die. It's stuck with me since then. I see it in my nightmares most nights."

"I'm sorry," Jasmine offered. Vivian just shrugged, biting her lip. It was easy to tell she did not know what to say or what to do. Eventually, she took a long, labored, stressed breath of air. "So, are you from the colonies?"

"Skopje, Inner Colonies."

"Where they build ships?"

Vivian turned, her eyes filled with surprise.

"Yeah...yeah! How'd you know that?" Before Jasmine could answer, Vivian wiped her nose. "You must be from the colonies too."

"No, actually. I'm from nowhere, I guess. My parents are from Earth. We moved around a lot"

"Oh."

"Why did you join the Navy?" Jasmine asked, trying to avoid silence.

"To get away from home. Too many memories. I also wanted to put my money where my mouth is. Didn't feel like getting drafted either, and I wanted to fight on my terms," Vivian chuckled sadly, "with the biggest guns on my side." She looked at her. "You put in for the Navy Medical Corps. I guess you'll be patching me up when I get wounded."

"Hopefully, it won't come to that," Jasmine said, wishing for a sharper wit.

"Why did you join?"

Jasmine explained her parents decided to quit their civilian posts and applied for Officer Training School. There was no shortage of surgeons required for the war effort and they could not keep moving from planet to planet. Now, they were UNSC officers and were holding positions on Reach. When they finished OCS, Jasmine was a first year medical student at a university on Reach. Like her parents, she felt the urge to serve as well. Quitting school, she applied for OCS. Luna Academy was where her parents went, so she went too.

Vivian told her she applied for an early advancement program via her high school before graduation. It was accepted, so the moment she completed her final semester she immediately traveled to Luna. She did not even go to her own graduation and never saw her hard copy diploma. Despite her parents' service in the UNSC Marine Corps, it was always going to be the Navy for her.

Sitting side by side, they swapped a few stories of their school experiences. At first, Jasmine expected to hear stories of how Vivian was the most popular, pretty girl in school, who competed in sports, and had a vast clique of friends. Instead, Vivian imparted stories of long library sessions, a small group of friends whom she loved so dearly, and a middle-class upbringing. As the oldest child with absent parents, it fell to her and her grandparents to raise the other two kids. It was tough; her younger sister was apparently very popular and had a very active life. Her brother, the youngest child, was no more than a toddler. Time in between school and family was spent reading or with friends, exploring the city and trying to get into or out of trouble.

Despite her surprise, Jasmine still felt like her own story was far less glamorous. With both parents working as doctors, they lived a very comfortable life. Moving from one beautiful high-rise apartment suite to the next, from planet to planet to planet, made making friends difficult. Once, as she was growing closer to a group she met in middle school, they decided it was more fun to tease her. When one of the kids with a lighter burned her favorite book, she stopped making friends. Nobody wanted to deal with her anyways. But she always made near-perfect marks in school, was always on the high honor roll, and earned several awards across multiple subjects. Her days were spent reading and that was about it.

A quick fear of ridicule rose and then was dashed. Vivian asked what she liked to read, eyeing her books. Jasmine admitted it was mostly murder-mystery novels and academic texts, ranging from history to science, but were predominately about medicine. While her tastes were far more broad, Vivian did enjoy mystery novels too, but stayed away from textbooks when it came to light reading. High school left her scarred for life she said, and they both laughed.

Their conversation grew very pleasant. By the end, they were eating the chocolate bar together.

"It's getting a little late," Jasmine said.

"Yeah," Vivian sighed, looking around. "I'm not sure I want to go back to sleep." She paused. "I'm not sure I should stay here. Maybe I should just report myself to the superintendent; I'm practically Four-F."

"Don't. You wanted to come here, so stay. It's only the first night. You can't let a dream hold you back," Jasmine squeezed Vivian's shoulder. "I'll help you."

Vivian blinked.

"I was so..." she shook her head. "I came here to study and train, not make friends. It's why I was so rude earlier. I'm sorry for that. But, you don't, I can't..."

"We're going to get through this, together," Jasmine assured her and for the first time in many years, felt very confident in her own words.

Staring for a time, Vivian blinked and looked away shyly.

"Jasmine..." she said, her gaze eventually returning. "Jasmine Ebrahimi. What a beautiful name. Mine's Vivian."

"Nice to meet you, Viv."

* * *

"Do you want to talk about what happened in the bunker some more?" Jasmine asked, setting aside her data pad and folding her hands on top of her desk. Corporal Karl Franklin Bishop sat across from her. Behind was a leather couch and an armchair, seated on a carpet. There was a small table on the left to make coffee and other hot drinks. To the right were some filing cabinets. Her office was cramped and lacked the personal touches that Vivian did.

Bishop was a stocky man, not as tall as other Marines, but far stronger looking. He had short reddish-brown hair and a matching scrappy beard. His face was shaped like a square and his head like a block. Despite his typical Marine-appearance, he sat slouched in the opposite chair with his folded hands resting on his stomach.

Jasmine ran a hand through her long black hair, intertwined with a few golden locks. "What about what happened in your quarters on the _I'm Alone_? You were sitting in the dark, talking about being seen."

"Yeah," Bishop eventually said, drawing the word out. "I was quite drunk at the time. Was drinking to forget the shit I saw that damn blockhouse, and the overhead lights were hurting my eyes, so I shut'em off. Big mistake. Moment I did, I'm in a corner staring at those big fuck-off glowy eyes Jackals have, or those smaller ones the Skirmishers have. See'em moving an' darting around. Really filled my head with smoke. By the time the rest of the squad came in, I thought I was talking to figments of my imagination."

He scratched his beard cheek and made a sputtering sound with his lips. "I mean, I was in there for hours, I get it. But I thought stuff that fucked with your head happened slowly, over time, or it was because of a whole bunch of bad stuff."

"Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't. Emotional trauma is like physical trauma. The body can receive a single blow that causes massive damage, or a certain part of the body can be worn down and down, causing increasing pain over time. In war, we often see so many sights that we can tolerate, but only for so long. Some minds can collapse under the weight. Other sights are short, but are a shock, that leave an imprint on your psyche."

Jasmine's mind raced back to some of her first days on the _I'm Alone. _She remembered that day Vivian madly thrust the ship into Ambition's atmosphere to rescue the Marines; if it wasn't for the warship's internal gravity field, everything and everyone would have been thrown against the bulkheads. It was terrifyingly fun until the first casualties were evacuated to the ship. To see the pristine, uniformly lined medical cots filled with burned, bleeding, broken men and women nearly overwhelmed her.

"Does that make me a weak link? If your mind's getting to you, then you're not completely in the fight. Your mates can't depend on you."

"No. Coming here and speaking about it is proof you aren't the weak link. You're talking about it, you're being _proactive_, rather than dwelling in the trauma. You're healing."

"So it really is just like your average wound?"

"I like to think that any kind of trauma can be treated. Some require stitches and bandages; others require conversation and thought."

The Battle of Camp Havens played out in her mind again. Once again, she saw the Banshee descend on her and she felt the tremendous heat of plasma on her back. Out of the fog came Frost, who aided her and pointed to her sidearm. _You get surrounded, you put the barrel of that pistol in your mouth and shoot yourself, understand? _Hours dragged by as she watched a thin olive drab line of Marines stave off one Covenant wave after another. When the Scorpions came, the Marines jumped on and fired their weapons as the tanks plowed through the retreating masses. She remember the Marines' wide, wild eyes, bared teeth, and their tongues hanging from their mouths as they squeezed the triggers.

Bishop pursed his lips in a very confident way and nodded.

"It does feel loads better to get it out. I can't really talk about it to my mates; we're either too busy training, fighting, or trying to enjoy what time we have to think about those things. Now that I think about it, it's very strange. We see all sorts of terrible things but we never really talk about them."

"Do you think it would help talking to them?"

"Not really. You're the top doc around here, with licenses and degrees and all that. You're a professional, and most of those guys I know can't even remember to brush their teeth or wipe their asses."

They both laughed and Jasmine smiled at him. Bishop broke her gaze and sighed, directing his attention to the window. It was still raining and the sun was just starting to rise. A few golden rays managed to pierce the thick barrier of dark gray clouds. Rain or snow, the clouds remained hanging in the sky.

It reminded her of the morning after Camp Havens. The sky was overcast and it was frightfully cold. Bunches and packs of Marines huddled around campfires, waiting for reinforcements. She could still feel that cold in her bones and the fire's warmth on her palms. Instinctively, he tugged the collar of her olive drab sweater down and took off the white lab coat denoting her station.

Bishop looked back. "Although, I think I'll talk to them about that day in the quarters. I doubt they even remember, but I think they deserve an apology. Seems like the right thing to do."

"I think that's a great idea. I'm sure they would appreciate that."

He seemed happy that she approved of his idea. In a way, his reaction was childlike. Any child was happy to gain an adult's approval, whether it was sought or not.

Jasmine was about to offer more advice when he leaned forward. "Say Doc, you've seen your fair share of horrors, ain't ya?"

"I suppose," Jasmine said, straightening up.

"Who you talk to when that all gets to you? What do you do?"

"Sometimes, my duties keep me busy enough that I don't dwell on it," Jasmine said after a moment's hesitation. "If I have free time, I try to read or write."

"Poetry?"

"I write thesis essays for the Naval Medical Corps. Recommendations for improved battle casualty care, rationalize regulations regarding medicine, devising plans for medical bays on warships. Papers like those."

"Bit over my head."

"Other than that, I try not to bring my own issues to other people. But Vivian...Captain Waters and I go way back. Usually, if I have something on my mind, she makes time for me."

"And Nate-boy too, I reckon."

Jasmine blushed and averted his gaze.

"Yes, Gunnery Sergeant Frost-"

"Nate."

"-Nate and I speak very often, yes."

Just the thought of him made her stomach roil with concern. It was more than a pit, it was like an entire numbing of her senses, spreading from her core to her extremities. Vivian was confined to quarters and Frost was in the stockade. Just a few days without them felt like years. It was only with their departure from daily affairs did she realize what pillars they were in among the entire task force. Vivian was the overall commander of the Naval element; brilliant, daring, stubborn, and willing to take risks. The Marines rallied around their star trooper, Frost, who possessed a bloody legend and the skills to back it up. Both were nearly worshiped by their respective service branches.

Without them, the entire task force seemed lost. Commander Solak, the _I'm Alone's _executive officer, was doing his best to maintain order with help from Captain Kelly. Colonel Hayes was controlling his Marines but it was easy to see their tension and mounting aggression. Thankfully, the full details of the bungled operation were still undisclosed, so the two branches were angry at the Army rather than each other.

But as soon as word got out, Jasmine knew their attention would shift to each other. The Navy personnel would support Vivian's decision to arrest and investigate the Marines. In turn, the latter would accuse her of singling out Frost. Her personal vendetta against him was becoming less clandestine by the day.

That was the most distressing and disappointing aspect of it all. Vivian finally made that step; she moved on, even without forgetting or forgiving. Jasmine was more than happy, she was proud of her best friend.

Had she reverted? And what of Frost, had he returned to his old ways as well?

Bishop must have sensed her thoughts.

"You know, I may be just a two-bit Marine, but I've known Nate for a long, long time. We did a lot of horrible things together, but that's just war. Marines are trained to kill; they want you to be aggressive. I know him, I see him; Nate's not that kind of man." He tapped his chest, over his heart. "Not in here."

Jasmine smiled bravely.

"Thank you."

Bishop could see her unease.

"I'll take off, Doc. I appreciate you seeing me so early." Both stood up. He clicked his heels and saluted, and Jasmine returned the gesture. Turning on his heel, he left her office.

Jasmine did not sit back down. Instead, she went over to the window and folded her arms across her chest. Looking out across the compound, she thought of Vivian and Nate. Trauma could be healed, she believed that; but the more she thought, the more she reflected upon it, she doubted she could ever heal them.

* * *

**Word Count: **6,404

**Author's Note**: Still continuing the opening theme of introducing background for the characters punctuated with a slice of the present. Part of the theme is identifying certain aspects that can define the character (elements for Vivian/Frost, mineral for Steele, and objects for Carris and Jasmine). Considering two points, one from Chapter 1 and another from Chapter 4, have yet to be seen, I'm also dabbling with some nonlinear storytelling. Rather enjoyable. Next chapter will be out next week, hopefully earlier as I plan to finish reconstructing _Marsh Silas: Inquisitor_, my Warhammer story.

**Comment Responses**:

**TheShadeOps**: _Generation Kill _is one of my favorite miniseries and I've actually reviewed footage to ascertain proper military chatter. It's probably one of the most accurate portrayals of the military I've ever seen. De Vos is an interesting character to work with, and I plan on increasing her role in the story. She's level-headed, committed, and loyal. Carris is the only canon POV character, and she has limited lore surrounding her. Crafting her background is difficult, but I didn't want to make up a character and squeeze them into the SPARTAN-II lore. Her vagueness is a double-edged sword; I don't have much to go on, but there's a lot of creative freedom.

**CommissarBS**: Your question is quite apt. Time and again, the previous story has dealt with the concept of personal struggles and rule of law in a time of survival. Yet, the extended lore of _Halo _has shown that, despite the presence of a genocidal enemy, the UNSC is willing to commit time, resources, and manpower to maintain military law and justice, such as in _The Fall of Reach _when John-117 is reviewed and question by a military board and his character is judged.

**MightBeGone**: I appreciate your regular responses, but please, there's no expectation for you or any other reader to leave a review on every chapter. I'm still surprised how popular Carris is as a character in this story. Guess I'm doing something right!


	6. Chapter 6: Fire

Chapter 6: Fire

* * *

Captain De Vos checked her dull, yellow heads-up-display. Armor integrity, defined by a long horizontal bar at the top of her VISR, was full. Above that bar was the compass, composed of a series of lines and icons. A long line would be followed by seven shorter ones, then a small rounded diamond, preceded by seven short lines, and punctuated by another long line. Turning her head saw the lines move until she could see letters, N, NW, and W. On the bottom left, was the explosives counter; she carried three standard issue M9 HE-DP fragmentation grenades on her rig. To the bottom right, were weapons and ammunition. Two images were shown; the top was an M7S SMG with, modified with a sound suppressor, flashlight and infrared laser rail attachments, and an SLS/V 5B scope smart-linked to her helmet. Just below the yellowed image were three horizontal lines of twenty bullets; the loaded sixty round magazine. Beside the M7S image was the number two-hundred forty, representing the spare magazines on her battle armor. Including the loaded magazine, she carried a total of five. Below the three lines of caseless ammunition was a picture of an M6C/SOCOM, complete with an integrated suppressor and muzzle brake, an extended magazine of twelve rounds, and an underbarrel rail attachment of a dual flashlight and laser sight. Unlike many other entries into the M6 series, the SOCOM relied on a smart-linked scope designated as VnSLS/V 6E. Most of the targeting apparatus was magnification software linked in her visor. Although the smaller, slightly faded image of the sidearm displayed no ammunition, she knew she carried a total of six magazined, including the loaded one.

But she did not need the visor HUD to describe the equipment she carried. De Vos rigged it all herself, right down to the webbing and pouches on the torso. In her backpack, she carried three more M7S and SOCOM magazines, a first aid kid, three MRE's, a hard copy map of the area of operations, a canteen, her tactical data pad, and sleeping kit. Tacked onto the left side of her chest plate was a scabbard sheathing her combat knife.

Depolarizing the VISR, she could see the environment of her drop pod more clearly. Right in front of her was a vertical column she could see through, with a pressure gauge on the right side and two windows to the upper left and right. Below each window was a squared screen; below those two screens were more panels and screens displaying targeting coordinates, vector, wind speed, velocity, drop speed, hull integrity, status of the chute, and an altimeter. Glowing buttons and other screens were also to the sides of the two video channels.

Sitting back into the seat of the drop pod, De Vos drew a long breath and slowly grasped the two handles on either side of her.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang on top of the body. She could hear gears turning and engines whining. Slowly, the pod was turned around one-hundred eighty degrees. In front of her was a massive, rounded titanium plate, with red warning lights and a checkered yellow-black warning bar to the right side. The giant plate slowly slid from her; across the open bay were more circular plates lifting up, like a series of shutters. Line after line of drop pods appeared, suspended in the long tubes the shutters revealed.

The screen to her left flickered to life. An ODST's helmet appeared and a line of green text and numbers appeared on the bottom. It read: Holst A.657178 (O-4).

His VISR depolarized. She could see him smiling.

"This is the time I'm most scared," he said, "and the time I'm most excited. Look down there, Captain."

De Vos obeyed and looked through the view column. Below, she could see the surface of a colony called Jamestown IV. Part of the green-brown continent below was burning. Massive orange blooms appeared, disappeared, and were replaced by great clouds of oily black smoke. Destroy Covenant and UNSC Navy ships were everywhere; burning, torn, and broken, some became caught in Jamestown IV's gravity well and plummeted to the surface.

She looked back up at the screen. He still wore a smile. "We're going down there to make a difference. This is the kind of battle that forges heroes and gets medals pinned on your chest."

"I'm just focused on the mission, Major," she said flatly. His brow furrowed with concern.

"It's your first combat jump and you want to do well. You're a good soldier with a stellar war record. If you were able to do what you did in the Pathfinders, you're up for this too."

"Thank you, sir," De Vos, genuinely grateful.

"You have good men and women under your command too. They've got a lot of experience and they're very brave. Give them the orders, and they will _do it_. I promise."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll see you down there. I _guarantee _you're gonna love it," he added, and his VISR polarized. She heard his comm channel change from secure to net. "Helljumpers of the 25th ODST Battalion, this is Major Holst. We're dropping into the fire. You know the mission:proceed to Phase Line Green and perform a rearguard action to allow the remaining UNSC forces on Jamestown IV to evacuate. There's not many people left; this is going to be a short, brutal fight, boys and girls. But we will hold at all costs. Until the last unit has left, we are staying on this planet. Prepare to drop. The DZ _will _be hot."

De Vos closed her eyes as the warning notification sounded.

_Boop. Boop. Boop. Beep!_

She heard the ignition, the release, and the drop pod smoothly fell away from the ship. Around her were the other officer pods, dropping before the enlisted personnel. But she looked up and saw puffs of blue-orange flame from the tops and saw the rest of the battalion deploy. It was like watching an asteroid shower. Orange flames emanated from the bottom of each pod, engulfing them. While it was quite noticeable on the other pods, she could only see brief, orange flickers outside her own. Knowing her pod was nearly a fireball, she thought it so strange she barely felt the heat.

It was practically silent within the pod. She felt utterly weightless inside it, even as momentum began to build. Looking out, seeing the cloud of drop pods, the great smoke from the burning planet, the explosions below, all silent. What she could hear most was her own breathing; long, slow breaths as her heart beat steadily, steadily.

The pod drew closer. De Vos felt colder. Her grip on the handles grew tighter. As it broke through the cloud barrier, it began to rattle and shudder. It was like riding in a Pelican when it traveled through a planet's atmosphere.

"All pods, stabilize as necessary," Major Holst said without emotion over the comms. De Vos obeyed, utilizing the controls on the handles, pumping the triggers and clicking the red descent buttons on the top. Soon, the shaking stopped. Holst started counting down. "Fifteen klicks...fourteen...thirteen...twelve...eleven...ten; deploy chutes."

De Vos hit one of the red buttons on the handle. There was a jerking, jarring sensation throughout the body which shook her bones. Monitoring the panels, she saw the speed decrease significantly. When it slowed to the appropriate descent speed, she hit the release and the chute disconnected. Again, there was a brief jerk but the pod stabilized quickly.

The altimeter began to sound and the number was beginning to decrease. On one panel projected the estimated time of arrival on the surface. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and waited.

There was a tremendous crash. De Vos shook in her seat. She hit the release buttons, there was a brief depressurization, and the front half of the pod shot off. Immediately, she rushed out, simultaneously raising her M7S. Everywhere, there was fire; fields of lush grass were walls of flame. In the bare patches of earth, there were charred human corpses, half-destroyed vehicles, retreating Marines and Army troopers running towards her, people flailing in the flames and screaming, and there was Covenant everywhere. An Elite Minor grabbed a trooper by the head and ripped it clean from his shoulders. Roaring, it held the head up; the eyes were rolled back and the mouth wide open. Skirmishers mobbed wounded men, beating them to death or cutting them apart with their talons. Grunts armed with needlers fired volleys of crystals; soldiers hit by too many were engulfed by pink explosions. They simply fell apart; their limbs tumbled to the sides, their stomachs burst, and their intestines fell out. Jackals skulked along, dragging helpless, shrieking wounded men away.

She saw everything in seconds. Immediately, she charged and fired. On her flanks, she could see other ODSTs pushing forward. Rapid fire rounds chewed through the light armor of Grunts and Jackals. Purple and blue blood splashed onto the ground, followed by alien corpses. Shocked by the counterattack, Grunts threw down their weapons, threw up their arms, and began retreating. Elites kicked and hit them, attempting to rally them. Intermingled between the Covenant bellowing were the cries of ODSTs.

"Frag out!"

"Tango down!"

"Two Covvies, eleven o'clock!"

"Drop'em!"

"Medic!"

"Jackal's got me!"

"Back-blast clear, fire!"

"I need another fucking frag!"

"Get the fuck up here!"

"Drop back, you're too exposed!"

"No, everyone push, push, push!"

She was running and shooting, shooting and running. As she cycled her weapon, she leaped over a corpse, then jumped again, this time over a man so charred he hardly looked human. The soldier was screaming so madly, she could not help but look over her shoulder. When she looked back, she ran right into a Jackal. They tumbled over each other and it came out on top of her. It screeched in her face and tried to bring its talons down on her helmet. De Vos caught its wrist with her left hand, yanked her SOCOM out, and fired the whole magazine into its torso. Blood splattered her. She threw it off, ejected the magazine, sat up, and reloaded. A Skirmisher darted towards her, but she shot it in the face. The bullet's impact was so forceful, bits of cheekbone came flying out, teeth shattered, its beak fractured, and the eyeball exploded. Life left its charging form and it came sliding to a stop right at her feet.

Something bolted into her from her right. A hand with talons was on the back of her helmet and forcing her into the dirt. The other hand clawed, trying to snatch the pistol from her hand. Elbowing blindly, she could not land a solid hit. Instead, she slid her pistol across the ashen soil, picked it up with her opposite hand, and pointed it over her shoulder. There was a squawk and she squeezed the trigger three times. Immediately, the weight came off her and she felt a form crumple to the side. Getting onto her knees, she expended the last of the magazine on a Grunt trying to aim a needler at her.

Remaining crouched, she dropped her sidearm and picked up her M7S. She raised it and began shooting at the Covenant right in front of her. An Elite came stomping towards her so she squeezed the trigger until its shield burst. De Vos grabbed her her pistol, reloaded, aimed for the head, saw the reticle turn red, and fired. The alien crumpled over. She slid the pistol back into her holster, picked up her M7S, and provided suppression fire as a squad of ODSTs moved up on her left flank.

De Vos ejected a mag and slid a fresh one in as a squad of Jackals formed a phalanx with their shield gauntlets. Bounding around, she slid to a knee, aimed, and began hosing them. Squawking and shrieking, they fell to the ground, wounded, bleeding, thrashing. Several troopers threw their combined weight against the survivor's shields, overpowered them, and began smashing their heads in with their weapons. When they advanced, more troopers came up and shot the Jackals they missed.

Streams of ODSTs weaved like the tendrils of a great beast in between the walls of fire. One Elite stood his ground, dual-wielding plasma rifles. One Helljumper was riddled with plasma bolts. But as he fell, three more ran up and mobbed the Elite. They latched on his arms, forcing his weapons down. One leveled his upper body and tackled the Elite. De Vos ran around, pulled out her combat knife, and jumped onto its back. It was a difficult leap as her armor was so heavy. But she grabbed onto its neck and jammed the blade into its throat. Gurgling, the beast collapsed to its knees.

Sheathing her knife, she turned to see ODSTs locked in a massed melee with Jackals. Some of the men had them pinned on the ground and were hitting them with their fists, pistols, or even their helmets. Likewise, Jackals were trying to strangle soldiers or pummel them with their shield. Grunts ran around, trying to retreat or kick wounded troops.

"Get into the fight!" De Vos shouted to the ODSTs with her. Raising a battle cry, they ran into the fray. Troopers dropped their weapons and let them hang by the straps as they tackled Covenant foes from their comrades. They crushed Grunt and Jackal faces with the heels of their boots, cut their throats with combat knives, and squashed their eyeballs with their thumbs. Other troopers ran around them, stabbing with knives or shooting with their weapons. Alien blood, purple and blue, splashed and coated their armor.

Running into it herself, she found herself on top of a Jackal. Taking out her knife, she slashed its throat. A Grunt jumped onto her, but she threw it off and kicked it so hard in the jaw its rebreather flew off. She raised her knife high and brought it down right on top of its skull. The Grunt went cross-eyed and went limp. Tearing the knife out, she whirled around and yelled as she cut a Skirmisher across the face.

De Vos sheathed it and kept running. "Keep going, keep going! Press the advantage!"

She could feel the momentum. ODSTs were storming over the Covenant dead. With the walls of flame on either side there was no way to create intervals between bodies. It was terrifying and exhilarating, bashing and shooting down Covenant. Grenades exploded, green fuel rod cannon bursts sizzled by. Soldiers were screaming and laughing, shooting and reloading. Wounded troopers dragged towards the rear by their comrades, even if there were no formed lines. There was no command post, no fall back position, and no objective; they were going to hit the Covenant, checking their advance. They were not just going to hold the line, they were going to push it back against the enemy, snuffing out their own momentum.

She was fighting, reloading, grabbing magazines from the cartridge belts and bandoliers from dead troopers. At times, there were so many shrieking, squawking, snarling Covenant around her, there was no time to reload. Dropping her weapon, she would pick up an assault rifle or shotgun from a fallen ODST, Marine, or Army trooper, and fire until the weapon went _click. _In that brief respite, among bullet-ridden aliens and dying humans, she would take up her M7S again, feverishly reload, and press onward.

Her eyes danced over her VISR heads-up-display. She'd squeeze the trigger and watch the rows of bullets deplete. When she lobbed a fragmentation grenade down the flame-bordered path, she would see the number decrease.

The fires grew more intense, growing higher and higher into the air. Wind fanned the flames and swirled smoke along the bare dirt path. ODSTs were side by side, shoulder to shoulder, so close they nearly stumbling over each other. They would charge into a mass of Covenant, losing a man or two, but wiping out the aliens. De Vos kept going, going, going.

Suddenly, she stopped. There were no enemies in front of her. De Vos looked over her shoulder; there were no ODSTs with her either. She could not hear anything that sound like a human or an alien. But there were bodies everywhere; soldiers blown to pieces, burned by plasma or the brush fire, and riddled with Covenant carbine slugs. Dead Covenant were all over the place too, blown up, scalded by the flames, and pockmarked by bullets. All she could hear was the roar of the fire. Almost all else was muted by her helmet.

"Shit."

Her first instinct was to shout and locate any nearby ODSTs. But that was too risky; enemies could be close by and would zero in on her location. Dropping to one knee, she put a finger to the earpiece and activated the SQUADCOM. She had dropped alongside A Company, call sign Assassin. "All Assassin call signs, this is Wardog Five, report your positions, over."

There was no response. "All Assassin call signs, this is Wardog Five, report your positions, over!" Again, there was nothing. She switched between multiple frequencies, including a net channel; there was static, some indistinguishable chatter, and an occasional scream. "Shit, shit, shit..." she muttered. Then, she tried calling the headquarters company of the battalion, call sign Wardog. "All Wardog call signs, this is Wardog Five, does anyone copy, over?"

The comm link suddenly stabilized.

"Wardog Five, this is Wardog Six, reading you loud and clear. Send traffic, over."

It was Major Holst. De Vos breathed a sigh of relief.

"Wardog Six, Wardog Five. It's good to hear you, sir. I've pushed ahead of forward elements and I can't raise anyone. Requesting SITREP and orders, over."

There was a brief pause. She could hear shooting.

"Five, Six here. We've stopped the Covenant cold but we've lost a lot of casualties. The last of the evac is taking place at Phase Line Red." De Vos recalled during the mission briefing Phase Line Red was the last location the UNSC could hold for an undetermined amount of time. Phase Line Green, indicated by a pulsating blue, diamond-shaped waypoint, was nearly one hundred meters to her front. If they were going to hold at Phase Line Red, it meant they lost too many troopers for continued offensive action. "We're going to be falling in right behind the last of the conventional troops. How copy?'

"Wardog Six, Wardog Five; solid copy, over."

"Get your ass back here, Wardog Five. I'm not going to lose you. Wardog Six, out."

De Vos's waypoint shifted on the compass. She looked over her shoulder and saw it was two hundred and fifty meters to her rear. Taking one last look to her front, she turned and began steadily working her way backwards.

It all happened so fast and with such savagery. It seemed like she had fought miles out from the drop zone. It was just a matter of meters, maybe fifty or sixty, perhaps a little more. She killed so many and so many of her fellow Helljumpers were slain too. Going back along the paths, she barely set foot on the ash-covered earth. The bodies lay so thick, they formed a blanket or a kind of flooring that carried up above the soil. The sheer amount of bodies was staggering. In some areas, it was not a matter of side-by-side bodies. Heaps, heaps of dead men and aliens, slumped over on another. Bloody piles of limbs and corpses, red blood mixing with that of blue and purple.

There was an ODST run through by energy swords; the bearer of the blade was on top of him, hand still on the handle, so the white-pink blasma continued to blaze. A dagger, held by the ODST's dead hand, was imbedded in its long neck.

Piles, piles, piles of Grunts who, ushered by their masters, sat in front of dead troopers armed with machine guns. The guns were fired for so long the barrels overheated and warped; the gunners sat dead behind it.

In between the bodies were hands, arms, legs, feet, and heads. Bits of flesh and bone were all over. Helmets, parts of battle armor, broken weapons, firearms with smoke still rising from the barrels, opened and discarded first aid kits, blood covered knives, and grenades with the pins still in. Women and men without helmets, soft-cover caps, or any face protection stared skyward. Their eyes were wide and blank, their faces frozen in terror, teeth bared and mouths wide open. Blood leaked from their eyeballs, noses, ears, and mouths. Skin was scorched and blistered, broken open and sliced. Some of the bodies even had spikes in them.

De Vos stopped and observed the corpses with spikes in them. She had not encountered any Brutes during the entire assault. No other Covenant infantry type ever utilized spikers other than the Brutes, at least not in her experience.

After examining the body, she stood up and looked around. She kept the stock of the M7S braced firmly against her shoulder, ready to aim. Wind was blowing harder than ever and throwing ash around like it was a blizzard.

"Wardog Six, Wardog Five, over."

"Wardog Five, Wardog Six, send traffic, over."

"Six, Five. Possible Bravo-Kilo presence, over."

"Fuck. Alright, I'm coming to you. Pick up your pace and keep falling back, out."

De Vos was about to turn when something hot and heavy slammed into her shoulder. At the same time, she heard something akin to an M90 shotgun going over and felt something strike her left side; it was like getting clipped by a car. The two impacts were nearly simultaneous and so forceful she was thrown onto her back. Gasping, she looked up to see two Brute Minors running at her; one carried a spiker and another a Type-52 pistol; it was their version of a shotgun. Their eyes bulged, saliva flowed from their open maws; the bloodlust was gripping them and they wanted to use their hands to finish her off.

Picking her M7S up, she squeezed the trigger. All sixty rounds struck the forward Brute, the one with the heavier weapon. The rounds chewed up its torso armor and pulverized its gut. Even as its clutched its belly and the intestines came out, it still stumbled on. Yanking her SOCOM pistol from the holster, she aimed and fired. The bullet hit it right in the head and it fell over.

The other one threw away its pistol, roared, and ran faster. Firing as fast as she could squeeze the trigger, she saw each bullet strike; three in the stomach, two in the chest, one in the left arm, two in the right arm, and three in the left leg. But its pace did not stagger and it grew angrier. None of the bullets seemed to have broken its momentum in the slightest.

Before she could slide a fresh magazine into the pistol, it was on her. In the brief thrashing, De Vos lost her grip on her pistol. Instead of crushing her, it grabbed her by the neck and held her up. Slowly, it squeezed. Struggling for air, De Vos took her blade from the scabbard and rammed it into the beast's forearm. But all it did was roar, shake her madly, and then tug the blade from its flesh without so much as an expression of pain. It dropped the blade onto the ground.

She kicked the Brute, punched its elbow, and tried to tear its fingers from her throat. Nothing worked. Her lungs were burning, she felt like her windpipe would collapse at any moment. As things began to turn black, she felt her legs start to go limp.

At that moment, she felt something hitting her feet. Her M7S strap was still slung on her shoulder and was hanging down by her face. With one, difficult effort, she pulled the strap up, fumbled the weapon around until she grabbed the trigger guard, reloaded it with her last magazine, and expended all sixty rounds. The bullets tore its face off and ruptured its throat. The Brute finally released its grasp and slowly fell over backwards, like a felled tree.

Falling onto her hands and knees, De Vos wheezed and coughed. But when she looked up, she saw another Brute coming at her. It was a Major, better armed and armored. Reloading with one of her last spare mags, she began firing. But the Brute fired its spiker, and two spikes penetrated her thigh. She fell onto her side, crying out, but raised her weapon to keep firing. The monster drew closer. Then, she heard a shotgun blast.

Looking to her left, Major Holst appeared with an M90. Advancing steadily and firing from the hip, he killed the Brute with several shells. After sweeping the area, he came over to her. Without speaking, he took out a fire aid kit, pulled out the biofoam canister, and positioned the nozzle in her wounded side. De Vos looked over and realized that the armor and all clothing underneath that section was shot away, and a chunk of her flesh was missing. It was a gnarled, bleeding mess. When he squeezed the canister trigger, yellow foam filled the wound and then sealed. She hissed and gritted her teeth, but the brief stinging pain was followed by a wave of relief.

Holst reloaded the shotgun, then pulled out a spare magazine for both her M7S and SOCOM. At the same instant, they both heard more Brutes roaring among the flames. He looked over her shoulder, depolarized his VISR, and looked at her. "Evac's wrapping up. I'm getting you out of here, Nina."

"I'm just going to slow you down. I'll cover you."

"Out of the question, Captain."

His VISR polarized, he handed her the shotgun and took out his pistol. "Let's go!"

Grabbing her by the strap of her backpack, he began dragging her back towards the landing zone. Just as they started, Brutes began coming out of the ashen fray. De Vos and Holst fired together; she broke their armor with the power of the M90 shotgun, while he finished them off with a well-placed pistol shot to the head. It was by the book, but effective. When she ran out of shells, he would drop another bandolier of slugs into her lap. If there wasn't time to reload, she would pepper the Brutes with SOCOM and M7S fire.

It was terrifying and hellish. Each time a Brute came close De Vos thought it was over. But they managed to bring it down every time.

She soon heard the wonderful clatter, rattle, and chatter of UNSC gunfire. Looking back, she could see a mixed squad of Army troopers, Marines, and Helljumpers defending the LZ. One of them was using a tripod mounted M247 General Purpose Machine Gun. Their motley position was made up of a few steel barricades and half-constructed sandbag walls. The blaze on either side consumed the rest of their defenses. Behind the thin line of soldiers was a hovering Pelican being loaded with remaining personnel.

Holst got her past the machine gun and to the Pelican. With the aid of a corpsman, they pushed her inside the Pelican. She took the seat on the right closest to the door.

"Sir, this is the last one!" the crew chief shouted, hanging onto a guard rail and firing his pistol at the encroaching Covenant.

"That's it then!" Holst shouted, running over to the machine gunner. He took over and began firing long bursts at the enemy. "Everybody get in, I'll cover you!"

Everyone collapsed back towards the Pelican. They clambered in, one after the other. De Vos fired with her M7S despite the pain from the spikes in her shoulder and thigh.

"Last man!" she shouted as the final soldier boarded. Holst, who was about to be overrun, tossed a frag grenade and ran as fast as he could. When he jumped towards the Pelican, it was De Vos's hand he grabbed. She hauled him in and he fell on the floor. The rear hatch closed and they ascended into the atmosphere.

De Vos took off her helmet and breathed in deeply. All she could smell was sweat, blood, and soot. Everyone was panting. Some covered their eyes or whole faces, or grasped the sides of their head. All were wild-eyed, trying to process what they just survived. Some began to weep.

Holst took off his own helmet and laid his head back on the edge of the seat between De Vos's legs. She was still holding his hand. His eyes were squeezed shut as he panted. When he opened them, he grinned. De Vos could not help but smile back.

It was not long before they were back in the ship. A voice over the broadcasting system indicated a slipspace jump was going to commence soon. De Vos was carefully carried out by Holst and several other men, and was placed on a stretcher. He was by her side the whole way, smiling at her and holding her hand.

Gazing up at him, she expected him to say something gallant or comedic. Instead, he nodded.

"I'm very proud of the way you handled yourself down there, Captain," he said. "Damned proud."

It was just a matter of words, words that she was accustomed to. It was not a matter of arrogance; many officers congratulated her performance before when she saw it merely as her duty. Each time she heard it made her heart swell with pride. But when he said it, she could have broken into tears.

She was about to say something, when Colonel Gu, from the division, approached. He was a wiry ODST, with bald head, square face, high sharp cheekbones, and menacing brown eyes. When he came over, the stretcher bearers paused and Holst snapped to attention.

"Sir!"

"At ease," Colonel Gu growled. "Major Holst, I saw your helmet feed. That was some damn fine soldiering."

He held out his hand. Holst blinked, glanced at De Vos, and took it. Gu grinned. "That's what being an ODST is all about, son. Bringing the fight to the enemy and accomplishing your mission."

"I didn't do it alone, sir," Holt said, motioning to De vos and towards the other surviving ODSTs shuffling by.

"I know. Thanks to you and your battalion, you were able to buy the evacuation precious time and to keep them from being overrun, at great risk to yourself as well. I'm putting you in for a medal; the Red Legion of Honor."

Holst raised his chin and he stood very tall.

"Thank you, sir," he said again, his voice thick. De Vos smiled as Holst and Colonel Gu shook hands again, but it soon faded. Looking past them, she could see other stretcher bearers; on their litters, the bodies were covered with blankets. Limp arms hung out from under them. Dozens upon dozens, hundreds after hundreds, of dead ODSTs. Alongside the procession of the dead, was a chain of the wounded. Men and women being carried and supported, all burned and bleeding. Some wounds were so severe they could hardly stand and many collapsed. Their screams echoed throughout the entire hangar bay.

* * *

De Vos found her gaze falling on the window of Carris's quarters. It was still dark outside and the rain was coming down steadily. When the wind swept through the compound, the rainfall intensified and drummed against the window. One could have mistaken it for distant machine gun fire.

"Major Holst and I have been fighting together a couple years shy of a decade," De Vos finally said. "I didn't grow up with him. I didn't train with him. As popular as he was, I had not even heard of him before a saw his name on my recommendation letter to the Orbital Drop Shock Trooper school. Might as well have picked my name out of a hat; I was in a pool of potential candidates made up of commissioned officers. I was in the Airborne, and later I served as a Pathfinder. ODSTs? Same principle; you fall from the sky and you fight. I accepted."

De Vos sat back in her chair and gazed at Carris. She was still on the edge of her cot, hands resting idly on her knees, shoulders hunched, head low. But her crystal blue eyes were up and burning into her own. Try as she might to keep her expression neutral, De Vos could see pent up frustration and anger in those eyes. Such feelings were present, even if one could not see them plainly.

Leaning forward, she smiled softly and pressed her hands together. "Soldiers find bonds between one another, whatever bonds those may be, in different ways. But ours was forged in the fire of our first battle. His awards were entirely earned; he came back for me while I was dying, and risked being left behind and killed so the others could get in first. Leaders like that are in short supply these days. Some officers are contented to be lap dogs for ONI, others defect to the Insurrection because they think they'll get a better deal, and others just run away. Holst, for all his flaws, leads from the front and fights with his troops. He doesn't stand behind them, or among them, he is _out _in _front._"

"Leadership is not just about fighting and giving orders," Carris said. "Some inspire their troops."

"I haven't met that many who can."

"I have." Carris smiled a little then. "He doesn't say much. He just..._goes_, and people follow him."

"If he's that impressive, I'd sure like to fight with him someday."

Again, Carris smirked.

"He doesn't fight with people; he fights for people." Carris sat up. "I haven't been with this outfit as long as you have. Major Holst is a decent soldier but I would not call him a respectable officer."

"He's a military man of an older school; the medals, badges, and accolades mean a lot more to him than they do for the likes of us. They really do mean something to him."

"Holst is the kind of man who wants to be a general one day, and he thinks a colorful ribbon rack and lines of medals will make that happen," Carris said. "On the ground, fine, but if he doesn't get his way he's nothing more than an upset peacock strutting and flashing his feathers."

"Yes, some of his behavior is questionable and not always metered with proper etiquette, but-"

"He's a glory-hound."

De Vos sat back, pursing her lips. She pointed at Carris.

"You know, I think that too sometimes. It's easy to, and it's even easier for people who don't know him. But you haven't served with him, and fought alongside him, like I have. You have not been there when he saved my life and the lives of others multiple times."

"How many ODSTs did you drop with?"

"Eight hundred."

"How many survived?"

"A little under three hundred," De Vos said after a moment's hesitation.

"So, you'd defy UNSC law because he saves lives?"

"I did _not _say that."

"Saving lives in the midst of the battle is one thing, ma'am. Yes, he saved you, and those other soldiers. But look how many he lost."

"Commanders have to complete missions; they have to send soldiers to die."

"Yes, that's war, it's an undeniable fact. But those kinds of casualties, even among ODSTs? How many did he lose saving a few? Saving lives isn't just about pulling someone out of the fire; it's about making sure the least amount of people get burned when you send them into it."

The words hung between them for some time. Carris's gaze hardened while De Vos looked back blankly. It was like having the wind knocked out of her; there was nothing she could say in response. It was not something new to her; it was a thought that occurred to her many times throughout her career. But it was always a painful reminder. The balance; how many do you sacrifice to complete the mission? How many lost lives merit the objective? When does the casualty count become unacceptable?

Finally, she swallowed hard.

"Major Holst is my commanding officer and my friend. He's saved my life. I feel indebted to him for that. But, I'm a soldier fighting on behalf of humanity. I'm not a member of his bodyguard and he is not a king. For humanity's sake, and as a soldier of the UNSC, I must obey its laws and regulations. So if the Major performed an act that violated it, I would be compelled to report him to the proper authorities."

"Regardless of respect? Regardless of friendship."

"Regardless of respect," De Vos answered, "regardless of friendship. Regardless of _everything._"

Carris stared at her silently for a long time. Eventually, her gaze softened and she looked back towards the window. Her blue eyes seemed to shimmer like ocean waves caught in a shining sun.

"You're lying," Carris said, her voice so tender it teetered towards fragility. "Get your data pad out."

* * *

**Word Count: **6,212

**Author's Note: **I wanted to upload this earlier in the week, but at least it's not at the end. It'll give me three days to work on _Marsh Silas _before I have to return to this story and other work. This was an interesting chapter to write, and actually took some research; reading up on the wiki's and re-watching footage of _Halo 3: ODST_. It was fun and I wanted the combat to be fast yet gritty, something that happened in a matter of minutes that could represent the highly skilled behavior of ODSTs but also their high-risk mission capacities. Lots of acronyms on this one, but this was on purpose; it was supposed to set a military scene and show De Vos's aptitude as an operator.

**Comment Responses: **

**MightBeGone: **I appreciate that. I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far. And I'm sure you'll find out.

**Commissar BS: **Being lore/canon friendly is something I've done my best to respect in this story. There have been some instances in the previous story where elements of technological capacities and science have been pushed to rather unbelievable circumstances, and occasionally I've made a mistake or two on species representation. But, I've always done my research and located elements within the games that would support such actions so they don't seem too far-fetched, you know? I want to create a balance between lore/canon friendliness, but also provide an entertaining, engaging narrative.


	7. Chapter 7: Faction

Chapter 7: Faction

* * *

**United Nations Space Command**

**Special Operations Assignment Offices**

**Vice Admiral Byron Travers**

**Log #2**

**Subject: Waters (Again)**

_My ace-in-the-hole, my prize hog, horse, whatever you want to call her, is at it again. _

_What on Earth am I going to do about this woman? On one hand, she's sticking it to the Covenant; she's taken territory back and has fortified it against further assault. Thanks to her efforts, we can go back on the offensive and seize the initiative. Because of her success in this project, I've been promoted and now it looks like I can get back into the war. I have pull, I can rub shoulders with the brass: influence is the word._

_And on the other, she's fucking insane. Every time that Marine, Frost, sneezes or farts, she wants to kill him! Frost is a war hero, he's got the medals to prove it. Waters, she's a rising star and HIGHCOM will want to start pinning medals and ribbons on her tit soon enough. Why they haven't yet is beyond me. But all that progress won't mean a damn thing if they're always at each other's throats._

_Factionalism has characterized every military since the 20th Century, I get it. Marines, Army, Air Force, Navy, SF, what-have-you, they always have shit to say about the other. That's expected, even encouraged, but in the end, they always work together. There's something bigger than themselves, something to unify them, to bring them beyond the petty joking. _

_But this is different. Waters, despite her youth, is Navy to the bone. She's brought her swabbies victory, and they love her for it. Frost, well, his reputation speaks for itself and the Marines he's with are tight. Waters' people will fight for her, and Frost's people will fight for him. History shows that two people with followers don't often fight; their followers do. _

_If this issue doesn't get resolved soon, it'll boil over. That's why I'm on this goddamn ship heading to Port Sanchez, to un-fuck this mess. _

_Kids these days..._

_Vice-Admiral Byron Travers_

* * *

"Jesus Christ, what are you doing in my window!?" Vivian exclaimed as she slid it to the side. Captain Kelly was dressed in fatigues and was wearing a climbing rig. He was soaking wet; his smooth, blonde hair was wild in the wind, and there was stubble on his sharp jawline. Even in the darkness, she could see his vivid blue eyes gleaming at her.

Rain came through the window, accompanied by the chilly wind. They stood there, him on the sill, she on the floor, staring at one another.

"May I come in?" he finally said.

Without another word, she helped him climb into the room. He took off the rig while she shut the door. Going into the bathroom, Vivian returned with a towel which he promptly took. He wiped his face and dried his hair, then peeled off the wet fatigue jacket he was wearing. All of his discarded clothing was placed in the bathroom sink.

Panting and tired, he sat back onto the couch across from the one Vivian was sleeping on. She quickly made him a cup off coffee which he readily drank. As she made him a second one, she sat down across from him.

"You're crazy!" What possessed you to come in here?" she hissed.

"Apparently it's because I'm crazy."

"There's guards right on the other side of the door. You could get thrown in the stockade and court-martialed."

"I don't doubt it," Kelly wheezed, "General Amsterdam has become pretty paranoid. She's never had an op go south like that before, she said."

Kelly went on to explain that he had to come see her. Planetside, he recovered some climbing and scaling equipment used by infantry for mountain and urban warfare. Although it might have appeared odd for a Navy captain to utilize such gear, officers of any service branch were well-trained in different realms of warfare. Even Navy cadets at Office Training School trained in infantry tactics, land navigation, hand-to-hand combat, weapon handling, and advanced courses that included rappelling, urban entry, and mountain warfare.

After taking the gear without raising suspicion, he equipped it with the help of a few of his bridge officers, and scaled the tower. The storm provided excellent cover for their infiltration.

"If you're here to break me out, I'm not going with you. I'm not going renegade."

"No, I said I'm here to talk to you," Kelly said. "Betraying the UNSC isn't exactly on my agenda. I came here to talk to you. There's a lot of discontent right now among the Navy wing of the task force."

Rumor spread about the confrontations between Vivian and Frost. Even if they did not know the full details, keen observers noted the tension and disdain the two held for one another. No matter how either party tried to disguise it and keep it behind closed doors, there were simply too many people in too small of a space. Kelly further explained the Navy personnel were distrustful of Frost, and along with Steele, massacred the prisoners. Regardless of their criminal activities, they believed such action was not becoming of the UNSC. Even though they were in a time of war, rules-of-engagement and military law needed to be obeyed. It was an oath all members of the UNSC swore. Considering the 89th MEU's past operations on Skopje and their subsequent legends of atrocities, their discontent was growing from serving alongside murderers. A few of the more moderate individuals within their tribe counseled much of it was hearsay and nothing was proven. Others countered they heard the Marines discussing their past missions against rebels and their tales proved their extrajudicial killings.

The Marines were more than unhappy or distrustful; they were furious. Frost was their big name trooper, somebody they could rally behind and count on. Aggressive, disciplined, and selfless, they recalled how he held the line during the Battle of Camp Havens, his stand at the turret control center, and his more recent achievements as a Raider; he was a man they looked up to. Unit pride soared thanks to him. Furthermore, they did not simply enlist or were drafted together; these men grew up alongside one another for several years. Brotherhood was a term often utilized throughout the service branches, but for them, it was a core ideal to their identity as Marines. Hearing his treatment at the hands of Vivian made Frost a victim in their eyes, and their rage was beginning to boil over. Before, relations in the mess hall were cordial and there was intermingling. Now, Marines and Navy personnel sat separately, and brawls were occurring in the messes, recreational areas, and training yards.

Officers on both sides were doing their best to control the brief, sharp outbursts of violence. No one was hurt beyond some bruises and cuts, but Kelly feared it was only going to get worse.

Compounding the entire situation were General Amsterdam and Major Holst. She was dragging the investigation out, bringing in experts to survey the massacre site and personally interviewing the family members of the deceased to get psychological and criminal backgrounds. Holst, somehow, made himself her deputy.

Kelly rubbed his forehead. "He said that the Army and the ODSTs are neutral in this affair and thus they should be the ones running the show. But he's too _stupid _to realize that's just spreading more division. By keeping us and Hayes out of this, we're practically out of the loop and he's making the cracks between us all the more wider. Bloody fool. Captain De Vos is the only one we can really count on. She's been interviewing everybody and trying to put the pieces together. Bless her, although she won't give me the skinny on any of it. It's damned frustrating, cap'."

Vivian took a little time to soak it all in. She sat back, inhaled slowly, and closed her eyes.

"Why are you telling me, then? I'm confined to quarters, there's nothing I can do," Vivian said, motioning to the rest of the room with both arms. "All of my operational and judicial authority as the task force commander is suspended. I'm outranked."

Kelly gazed at her somewhat desperately.

"There's gotta be something you can do. We know you didn't pull the trigger. Ask the guards to fetch Amsterdam, tell her that she's looking in the wrong place. You're the task force commander, that has to count for something in this."

"She won't listen to me," Vivian sighed, leaning forward and resting her hands on her knees. "Of course, she's taking her time to put things together. She needs to know if I'm crazy or not."

"Aw, cap', don't say that. Please, don't say that."

"Who knows? Maybe I _did_ just imagine the whole thing. Let my fear, let my anger, get the better of me. At this point, I'm starting to wish that is the case. Frost is a good Marine, and he's a decent man."

She was looking towards the window when she said that. Rain was still pounding against the glass. It was comforting at that moment.

Kelly did not say a word for a time and she looked back at him before she was further fixated on the pleasant drops rolling down the glass. His brow was furrowed and his lips were pursed.

"Cap', I heard a lot about Skopje. Horrible stuff, what the Marines did the Innies. They tortured people, killed them in really terrible ways. People chained and staked to trees, thrown off cliffs. They even killed noncombatants. Begging your pardon, but I've been in the Navy a bit longer than you. I was a lieutenant commander back when Skopje went down. As wide as our colonies are, word can travel pretty fast when captains remember to plant their fuckin' comm buoys."

Vivian leaned back and stretched one arm along the backrest of the couch.

"You in the habit of believing rumors?"

"Most of a spark of truth, don't you think?"

"Perhaps. But you forget, I'm _from _Skopje. You didn't hear the artillery in the distance or see the Falcons over the mountain. You didn't see those forests burning from miles away. And you know what, I didn't know anything about what happened up there until a few days ago. ONI locked that place down tight and the propaganda machine did what it does best. So I don't know how in the world those rumors got started."

"How much do you know, then?"

"What the Innies did to a unit belonging to the Army. I don't really want to talk about it."

"Bad?"

"Worse."

Kelly scratched the back of his head and drank his coffee. When he finished, he set it down rather hard on the table in between the furniture.

"Cap', that's beside the point. I know you aren't crazy. You're too smart. You have to do something or this task force is going to fall apart. That can't happen." He grew very solemn, and his dark blue eyes grew depressed. Sinking back into the couch, he shook his head. "I love this outfit. I finally feel like I can really contribute to the war effort here. If it splits up, they'll just send me and my crew off somewhere to wait for the Covvies to show up and kill us. Out here, with these ships, these people, with you, we take the fight to them. We get to fight on our terms, cut loose and detached from the brass. Out here, we see things the way they are; we're losing the war. Colonies are burning, millions are dying, and all the fat generals and admirals back on Earth don't have a clue. Maybe they don't even care. But we know, we care, we see it, and we can do something about it. Because of us, maybe the entire UNSC will go on the offensive. Maybe we, we, can turn the tide."

For a time, he leaned forward and clasped his hands together. His expression became less sullen and more determined. There was a new twinkle to his eyes. It was not hard for Vivian to see he meant every single word. When he looked at her, she thought he would shed a determined tear. "Here, I have hope. At the end of the day, hope is what's gonna see us win this war."

Vivian smiled.

"That and the Magnetic Accelerator Cannon."

Kelly snorted. After a moment's pause, Vivian went over and sat beside him. She put a hand on his shoulder and the pair shared a friendly smile. "I love this task force too. From the people to the ships. Hope is a beautiful thing. But, you can't blind yourself with it. I don't think you do. What I mean is, I don't think I'm going to be around for much longer."

"Cap', no..."

"If it goes through that I was wrong, and Frost and Steele are cleared of any charges, they'll want a psych-eval. Although, I'm sure it'll be a formality; they'll sack me and stick me at a desk somewhere around Earth. They need somebody with a clear mind and solid judgement, not someone who sees ghosts and sees a murderer in everything that dresses in battle armor."

In the time she was tucked away in her own office, she ruminated on all the times her friends came back to her. Shadows, with blank white eyes, clawed hands, wild hair, and wounds leaking blood; they were terrifying. To say she was sound of mind was a complete lie, and she did not want to lie to the personnel under her command anymore. A real leader was transparent and provided inspiration. How could she do either, keeping figments of her own imagination away from them? Inspire? How? How, when she could barely sleep at night and covered her ears in the hopes the assault rifle would stop firing? Strength of character, stability of mind, stoutness of heart; those were the traits of a leader. Thinking, thinking, and thinking, Vivian decided she lacked everything.

In a way, she was tired. Just utterly exhausted, beyond the farthest point of fatigue. Sometimes, just sitting up on the couch took so much effort. In this room, she was eroding, wasting away. Not just the room, but the planet. She needed to get back out among the stars. A war was raging and she needed to be back in it. Left to her own devices, helpless against her memories and her imaginings, she would corrode. If not, she would self-destruct. In the days after the killing, she felt like a ticking bomb. Steadily, deliberately, counting down, all the way down, until it exploded. If she stopped moving, she was going to die.

Yet, there was the dilemma. She had to fight, but she did not trust herself with the lives of those entrusted to her any longer. Nobody, not even the most saintly holy man, wanted to admit their failings. For a long time, neither did Vivian. But she gave in and finally saw herself; insane. Or at least, close enough to insanity. People would die if she did not clear her mind and she was not sure she could do it.

It made her want to cry. Instead, she squeezed Kelly's shoulder. "If that happens, if they send me away, I've nominated you to take over as the CO. You're the right man for the job; experienced, intelligent, compassionate. That's what a leader ought to be."

"No way, cap'. You _made _me; if it weren't for you, I'd still be serving under that fat prick coward back over Ambition. I can command a ship, sure, but a whole task force? I-"

"I wouldn't have picked you if I didn't have confidence in you, Kelly. You went to OCS as soon as you were of age; you graduated a year early and in the top two percent of your class. Navigation, fleet tactics and deployment, supply, organization...you know what you can do."

"But I ain't you; the men and women of this group, they love you."

"Not all of'em!" Vivian said with a toothy smirk. She shook her head and laughed a little.

"If you stay, you're going to have to find a way to heal the wounds between the Navy and the Marines. They need to work together. They need to trust each other. If they don't, we won't be as effective in orbit or planetside. We'll all die."

"I can't do a thing until I'm out of this room, Kelly. It's out of my hands."

"There must be something you can do. Something I can do."

"You'll report back to your ship and pretend this never happened. If they ever find out you were in here, they won't confine you to quarters and send you to the Navy head shrink. They'll put you behind bars. Hope won't do you much good there."

"Better than sitting around here."

Kelly sighed, finished the last of his coffee, and stood up. Without another word, he went to the bathroom and changed back into the wet fatigues. Vivian watched in the doorway and could see him clench his teeth as the cold, damp material touched his skin. After a few minutes, it became manageable but his steps were rather stiff. Joining him back in her quarters, she helped him don the rig and reattach it to the safety ropes resting on the sill and squeezed between the window and its side trim. Throwing it back open, stepped aside so he could climb back up.

Before he did, he looked down at his boots. He wore a defeated expression; weariness in his face, his mouth slightly open as he drew labored breaths, and his eyes were squeezed shut.

Eventually, he looked back up at her. "If you asked me, I'd break you out of this place."

Vivian blinked, then she laughed.

"And go Innie? I guess I better stick around then, so I make sure you don't do such a foolish thing."

"I have no sympathy for the Innies above their rights as citizens. But sometimes I wonder, is rebellion such a foolish thing, when the government is foolish too?"

Vivian had no time to respond. Kelly heaved himself upwards, turned, and carefully climbed down a few paces. When he was halfway out of sight, he paused again, he looked at her. Wind tousled his blonde hair, rain ran in rivers down his face, and his eyes were very dark. Then, he disappeared.

She wanted to look over and watch him go, but Vivian closed the window instead. She sat down on the edge of her bed and waited.

* * *

With her data pad under her other arm, Jasmine raised her wrist. It was still very early in the morning and the sun was still trying to break through the clouds. When she passed by the windows inside the Marine barracks, she thought the sun would never come back out. Perhaps it was just like winter weather on Earth; in some places, the sun went away for months. For those people, it was a dark gray gloom for a good part of the year. Weather cycles of the Port seemed to indicate as such. Although, a more superstitious type would have bargained the weather matched the overall mood of the Port's inhabitants and the prospects of a glorious future for the battle group.

Luckily, Jasmine was not beholding to such suspicions.

Having gotten ahead on her morning logs, she decided to pay Frost's squad a visit. Bishop's disposition, although heartening, worried her about their mentality. Lacking their squad leader, second-in-command, and their knight in shining armor, she sensed a feeling of aimlessness. Combined with worry, it would sap their morale. Someone with a higher rank and pay-grade would have gone on to mention their poor morale would spread to other units like a disease. Low spirits and cynical opinions were just as detrimental to a unit's health as measles and TB. Vaccines took care of the latter; curing the former was far more challenging.

Thinking of them alone and unsure of what to do, Jasmine decided to make it a point to see them.

Approaching their communal living area, she knocked on the door before entering. As she suspected, they were all there. Bishop and Maddox sat at the dining table. Across from them were Bishop and Langley. All four had cups of steaming coffee in front of them; the first three held cigarettes in between their fingers. Thin trials of smoke mingled with clouds of steam, but nobody drank, smoked, or coughed.

Grant and Moser had pulled two of the armchairs close together around a coffee table. Seated on the top was a chessboard. Judging from the few pawns sitting alone in the center of the board, they were either uninterested or just hadn't been playing for too long.

"Good morning," Jasmine said.

"Mornin'."

"Morning, Doc."

"Sup', Doc."

"Morning."

"Want a cup, Doc?" Langley asked.

"Sure. Cream and sugar, please."

"How much?"

"Doesn't matter."

While Langley went to prepare a mug, Jasmine walked into the room. She first looked down at Grant and Moser, hunched towards each other and staring blankly at their game. Moser's jet black hair was growing out and looked as though it was not combed for days. His beard was thicker and there were a few grand strands in his mustache. Grant had trimmed his dark hair down to a stubble, but wore a bushy goatee. It gave him a rough, aged edge, betrayed by his soft cheekbones and youthful amber eyes.

Crouching, she tried to meet their eyes. "Who's winning?" she asked with a kind smile.

"You know," Moser sighed, "I'm not exactly sure."

"It's anybody's game, really," Grant added with a less than enthusiastic smile.

Jasmine nodded and patted him on the shoulder. Taking one of the spare kitchen chairs, she dragged it over and placed it at the end of the table. Spinning it around, she sat down and placed her data pad in front of her. None of the men looked at her. Knight was staring at the ashtray filled with cigarette butts. Maddox, sitting beside the window, stared out through the rainy glass. Bishop just looked into his mug.

Eventually, he looked back up and smiled at her.

"Sorry bunch, ain't we?"

"You look like a pack of sour-faced, grumpy Marines," Jasmine said after a little while. "But as far as I know, Marines are always angry. When are they not?"

"Not a Marine, thanks very much," Langley said as she slid a hot mug in front of Jasmine and took her seat again.

"You dress like one, talk like one, _drink _like one. Work on your cussing and grow a beard and you'll be a bonafide Marine," Maddox said without taking his eyes away from the window. Langley just rolled her eyes, but Jasmine could see a hint of smile in her small lips. Her hair, almost as dark a shade as Vivian's, was tied back into a regulation ponytail although a few of her locks were loose. Her skin remained pale, though not quite as white as a sheet.

Jasmine remembered when she first met Langley during her mandatory medical evaluation on the _I'm Alone _nearly two years ago. How young she seemed then, and how old she seemed now. Smooth skin was now worn and blasted by the weather; there were faded crease lines on her forehead and even the beginnings of crow's feet at the edges of her eyes. Months of micro-shrapnel, sunburns, and airborne debris took their toll; there were little marks and cuts all over her face. She truly did look like a Marine.

Maddox's orange hair seemed faded. It was thick and directionless, exacerbated by the fingers dug into it as he leaned his head on his hand. Once, he wore a goatee but it grew out and now there was a sheen of red stubble on his cheeks. Although scrawny compared to the likes of Bishop and Knight, he was still a moderately sized fellow. Knight, while bigger, was not as muscular as Bishop. His stubble had given way to a full beard; like his closely cropped hair, it was a very pale brown. He too seemed a few years older.

"I know it's frustrating," Jasmine began. "You're not in the loop, you're worried about your friends, your future, and beyond all that, we've been stuck on this planet for a long time. Believe me, I think we all earned a rest, but it's time to go back out there, wouldn't you say?"

"Yep."

"Yo."

"You said it."

"Can't happen soon enough."

"_Ja._"

"Mhm."

Jasmine clasped her hands together and rested them on the table.

"It's moments like this remind just how little we know. We're given as much information as our superiors think we need. If you think about it, we're never really fully aware of the situations. Often, they're above our station. Perhaps we know a bit more than the average citizen in the Inner Colonies or way back on Earth. Propaganda and ONI censorship make sure they don't see the amount of lives lost or how many planets were destroyed, lost, or abandoned each month. We become numb to it. I won't say resigned. Accept is too generous. What we do accept, is the limiting of information by our superiors. We have to trust them and sometimes, well, this is awful to say, it's a real gamble. But you don't have to gamble with Frost, do you? You never have to question, doubt, or second-guess. It's hard to find a leader like that. Somebody who...cares about you, who sees you for who you really are, and helps you be yourself."

None spoke up. Jasmine expected that. She could see by their attentive gazes and understanding expressions that she was right. Reaching over, she patted the top of Langley's hand. "Frost isn't the kind of man who would do such a thing. Not anymore. I firmly believe when we look at someone, it is who they are _now_ that we should judge them by, not who they were, and not what they might become. He's going to come out of this just fine."

At last, they seemed to smile. Their eyes grew less hard and their faces brightened. Seeing their spirits raised brought cheer to Jasmine's heart as well. Life seemed to return to them; they looked at one another, drank coffee, stubbed their cigarettes out or smoked them.

Even if they did not speak, they were engaging one another and that was most important. If they were alone with themselves despite sharing the same room, they would be nothing more than islands. No support, no recognition, just pillars of solitude uninterested in one another and focused on the same malignant issue. On their own, the pillars would corrode and erode until they toppled over from the strain. Together, they could hold it up with ease.

"But that's not it," langley said then. "It's the Navy personnel. They're calling the Marines all sorts of bad things. You've heard them."

"Baby-killers, murderers, rapists, psychos..." Knight muttered. "We've done some bad shit we never did that."

"Fuckers we killed deserved it anyways," Maddox put in.

"They weren't there when we did those things. I don't think we'd do such things to do. But we were justified in doing. It doesn't matter though; they weren't there and they're _judging _us for it? Before all this, we got along fine and now that the captain's behind closed doors they're acting like it's our fault." Bishop shook his head. "They think we're insane. We're not crazy. We're dedicated Marines and we do our job well. Who're they to judge us?"

"They're angry, and they're human. I know it's aggravating, but you can't pay them any mind. Let them jeer; retaliation will only breed retaliation. Stay above the muck and you'll stay clean."

"We've been keeping our noses clean but the other Marines are pissed as hell. They keep talking about roughing up some of the swabbies. Hell, they're so mad they're talking about beating shit out of the Army personnel." Knight shook his head. "It's hard not to get mired in it. Doesn't it make you angry, Doc?"

Of course it did, she wanted to say. Committing an act of self-defense and maintaining control of the mission, and he was imprisoned for it? If General Amsterdam did not pull joint-operational authority, the Army could never have touched him. To be held by another branch was demeaning to his enlistment as a Marine.

Respect as a soldier was not the only reason. She cared about him so much. There were other words she could use to express her feelings, but like so many, she feared using them too early. Regardless, that was how she felt about him and she wanted him back. Back with her, back to their spaces, feeling each other's presence. To wake up next to him, to go to sleep beside him, to slip into the sheets from a late shift and find him there. How she longed to see him happily cooking in the communal kitchen, singing or humming, tapping his foot to nonexistent music. The way he looked over his shoulder and smiled, it was a tonic that no doctor could provide. And there were those moments when their heads on the same pillow, two bare bodies pressed against each other under the sheets, and drenched in sweat. She wanted it back, she wanted it all back, she wanted him back.

At times such as these, she wanted to break her calm, patient exterior, the one she wore nearly constantly. Sometimes, it was just her own choice. On other occasions, it was by obligation, and a realization that in many situations, _someone _had to be calm, neutral, and even in their actions. Here, these Marines were friends, and if not, people she could at least find common ground with. To them, she was the one taking care of their friend Bishop as well as the lover of their squad leader. By their standards, she was one of them even if she did not feel like it. No one in the room would blame her for blowing her top and venting about the situation.

Before she could decide whether or not to do so, someone came marching in loudly. All turned to see Captain De Vos standing in the doorway. In her hand was a data pad and she wore a very determined expression.

"Dr. Ebrahimi, I need you to take a walk with me please, ma'am."

"I suppose it's urgent," Jasmine said, gazing into her eyes.

De Vos only nodded. With a sigh, Jasmine stood up and collected her data pad. She smiled at the squad. "This will all be over soon," she said, more for herself than for them.

Out in the hall, she had to catch up to De Vos. She was walking so fast she bordered on jogging. Her free hand was clenched in a tight fist.

"I just finished speaking with Carris a few hours ago. Her testimony provides conclusive evidence to the outcome of this case."

"That's rather vague, Captain."

"Intentionally. I'm sorry, Lieutenant Commander; I want to bring this in front of General Amsterdam before anyone else. We can settle this matter right here right now."

"If you weren't going to tell me, you could have left me behind," Jasmine said, trying to hide her irritation.

"General Amsterdam is a capable leader and a good soldier. I trust her, but this case has got her in a bind. I think she's worried that this may compromise her command and she'll be removed from this operational group. Having you there will not only back me up, but I believe it will offer a calming presence, someone we can look to keep the discussion civilized."

"I take it we're expecting someone uncivilized, then?"

"Major Holst is..." De Vos looked down briefly as she walked. Then she shook her head a little and looked ahead once more. "...is proving inflammatory to the situation."

"I might be of better service if you tell me what Carris said."

De Vos said nothing. Jasmine decided not to press the matter. Pulling rank was not something she was prepared to do or even wished to do. As well, she respected De Vos on a military and personal level. She trusted her to tell her when the time was right.

Together, they stormed out of the barracks and into the morning gloom. It was still raining steadily but the strong winds were finally dying down. The entire compound courtyard was glistening in the foggy gloom. Static white and yellow lights, and flashing red ones, shone eerily through the gray clouds all over the base. Some personnel shouted or spoke loudly to one another as they unloaded vehicles or moved cargo from one area to another. Trucks, Warthogs, and Scorpions rolled in and out of the base. At one point, Jasmine and De Vos stopped as an Elephant, looming out of the fog, rumbled by them. It towered of them as its massive treads ground against the pavement. It shook the world around them. On the ramparts of the giant command vehicle, shadowy figures stared down at them.

They went over to the command center, pushed through the doors, flashed their IDs to the security personnel at the desk, and took the elevator up to the office floor. Months ago, it was a dilapidated ruin of cracked concrete, thick vines, demp floors, flooded basements, and dusty skeletons. Now, it was a composition of exterior reinforced concrete and smooth, white interior paneling. There were intercom systems, security cameras, monitors displaying information from the entire battle and fleet network, as well as live connections to other battlefronts. Personnel were packed together on each floor; clerks, military police, analysts, scientists, advisors, intelligence operatives, separate administrative personnel for all of the service branches, and more. Chamber after chamber served a multitude of tasks ranging from the organization of the daily distribution of supplies and work details, to briefing rooms dedicated to planning future operations.

After exiting the elevator, they walked down the long hall, shouldering past numerous staff officers. When they came to General Amsterdam's office, they found two Army sentries on either side.

"We're seeing the General. _Now. _Try to stop us and you'll be cleaning shit-covered boots with your toothbrushes," De Vos growled as they approached.

"Actually ma'am," one of the sentires said as he tapped an entry code into the door key pad, "you're expected."

"What?"

The door slid open and they walked right in. Jasmine snapped to attention a second after De Vos did. Sitting behind her oak desk was General Amsterdam, hands folded and resting on the edge. There were dark bags under her eyes and her hair was loose from its usual bun. Sitting nonchalantly on a leather armchair on the left side of the room was Major Holst, who was clean-shaven and in a trim fatigue uniform. Behind her were four staff officers, each holding a data pad. In the chair beside him was Captain Rundstrum, smiling happily as he ran a hand through his blonde hair. On the leather couch across from them were Captains Kelly and Slater, of _Batavia _and _Best of the Best_, respectfully. Standing behind them were two Commanders; Alastair of _Determined Guardian _and Kolchak of _Lion's Den. _Standing on their side but closer was Colonel Hayes, arms folded across his broad chest and glaring menacingly. Major Holst was beside him, hands folded behind his back and wearing a soft cover cap.

All were staring in the center of the room. A Navy admiral was standing there by himself. He turned around and Jasmine blinked.

"Rear Admiral Travers?" she said without thinking.

His brown hair was still wild and swept back. His beard was shorter but still scrappy. Acne scars mottled his cheeks. Ribbons decorated the left side of his chest. Coffee and alcohol stains that once decorated his gray tunic were gone. The left sleeve was folded and pinned at the shoulder. His right hand remained curled in a fist at his side.

He smiled slowly, flashing his pearly white teeth like a wolf.

"Vice Admiral, thank you," he said. "It's good to see you again, doctor. And you must be Captain De Vos. It's a pleasure to meet you. Now, I believe you have some information to share and if I don't hear it in ten seconds everybody is going back to Earth in chains."

* * *

**Word Count: **6,106

**Author's Note:** Did some experimentation with monologue in this chapter. I liked the way it came out. Wanted to branch out a little because I've been focusing on improving dialogue, which I'm very happy with. As for the ending, it's not so much a twist but rather a tying of the bow; the beginning opens with Travers introducing himself, and it ends with Travers being physically introduced. Sign, sealed, delivered.

Anyways, I plan to get the next chapter up a little sooner.

**Comment Responses:**

**TheCarlosInferno: **Thanks for commenting! Chapter 6 was the last introduction chapter and now we're going to begin progressing with the plot. Colonel Hayes is a character we'll see a bit more of in his series. As I stated in the information packet on the forum a few months ago, Nora Langley will no longer be a POV character but will still be a participating member of the story undergoing growth and development.

**MightBeGone: **That was the goal, I really wanted it to be fast while also providing enough details to titillate the senses. Glad the conversation provided the desired effect too.


	8. Chapter 8: Verdict

Chapter 8: Verdict

* * *

"Gunnery Sergeant Frost, wake up. _Wake up._"

Frost sleepily opened his eyes. He found himself on his side, curled nearly into a ball on the cot. Before he fell asleep, he pulled part of his fatigue jacket over his head and removed both his socks and boots. His feet were cold.

Stiff and bedsore, he stretched as he rose to a sitting posture. Cracking his neck and flexing his arms a little, he worked out the kinks in his joints. Sighing, he reached down, tugged his socks on, and then tied his boots on. Zippering his jacket and flattening the creases, he stood up and walked to the center of the white cell. Looking at the blank glass, he waited for someone to speak. For a brief time, there was nothing.

Tapping his foot, he wondered if the Army military police were trying to toy with him. Disturbing a prisoner's sleep without adequate reason could be interpreted as abuse, which could be investigated and punishable by court martial. Or at least, that's what he remembered reading in the UNSC handbook. Sleep deprivation usually came with greater frequency and factors far more terrifying than someone speaking passive-aggressively through the cell intercom. Tales of attacks dogs, beatings, inspections, and other methods came to mind. Perhaps, he thought, he read too many books growing up and his rationalization was influenced by sensationalism rather than fact.

Just then, the intercom crackled back to life. "Gunnery Sergeant Frost, turn around and place your hands against the walls."

Confused as he was, Frost ultimately obeyed. Deliberately, he turned and braced his hands on the stark white wall. "Do not move."

He heard the door slide open. A troop of soldiers came marching in. By their heavy footfalls and leathery strain of their webbing, he could tell all were heavily armed and armored. They gathered around him, forming a semicircle. On the wall, he could see their dark shadows looming over him.

Hands roughly took his arms and put them behind his back. A pair of handcuffs were placed on his wrists. It was not the steel loops connected by a chain like in the old days. Instead, it was a more advanced shackle. When deactivated, it looked like a rather large, symmetrical metal square. But with an activation key, two sliders came out of each side. Wrists were placed in the circular spaces on each one and then the key was turned again so that slides connected, pressurized, seal, and tightened on the wearer.

The moment they shut, he could not help but wince as his skin was pinched in the spaces.

A hand fell on each shoulder and turned him around.

"Gunnery Sergeant Frost, your presence has been requested at the CP," a lieutenant wearing a soft cover cap stated.

"Is my court martial today, sir?" Frost asked.

"Your presence has been requested," was all he said. "If you try to escape or in any way attack these guards, you will be shot. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Detail, proceed," the lieutenant ordered.

The troopers assembled around Frost and with one final shove in his back, they marched out of the cell. Stepping out into the hall, he could already feel a difference of air and temperature. Industrial heaters and vents ran along the ceiling and bathed him in warmth. A military smell, composed of unwashed people, oiled weapons, and starched uniforms, hung in the hall. Guards, spaced in ten foot intervals, lined the cell block. All wore a black pauldron on their armor with stark white letters reading MP. Each scowled as Frost was herded by them. Booted feet thudded on the concrete floor, webbing, armor, and packs rustled. Outside, he could hear the rumble of vehicle engines and the force of aircraft as they passed overhead.

He was guided past Steele's cell. Looking through the one-way glass, he could see his friend leaning against the opposite wall. Both hands were in their pockets, his posture was slouched over, and his head hung low. Thick blonde spilled over his face. A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, a thin trail of smoke rising from it.

Frost was shocked and wondered just how he managed to get those.

Outside, he expected to be blinded by the sun. But it was an early overcast morning. A gray gloom hung over the base, chilly rain pattered on the compound grounds, and lights became a haze. Although it took time for his eyes to adjust, there was no pain.

There was a great deal of activity. Convoys of heavy vehicles ranging from civilian eighteen-wheeler tractor-trailers to Elephants rolled in and out of the base. Pelicans, Albatrosses, and Darters were descending and ascending with clockwork regularity. Automated cranes loaded crates packed with rations, ammunition, medicine, armor, uniforms, weapons, explosives, and every other item provided by the UNSC military infrastructure, ranging from small scissors in grooming kits to flash cloning sets. Each crate was unloaded by an automated crane and placed onto an elevator pad in the center of the two landing pads. Once fully loaded, the lift would lower into the bowels of the underground segment of the base to be stored in the cavernous subterranean warehouses.

Most of the personnel moving over the base were logistical personnel; mechanics, engineers, quartermasters, technicians, communications specialists, intelligence officers, and many others. A majority belonged to the Army and Navy; Operation: EXALT was jumping off soon and the battle fleet would arrive soon. They would need to resupply, make any repairs necessary, and their headquarters staff would need to sit down with local brass to go over the plans again.

Seeing it made his heart soar. It reminded Frost of when he first showed up to basic training at age thirteen. A quiet, nervous kid, not even in high school, whisked away by the powers that be to see the power in their corner. Tanks, aircraft, lines and lines of soldiers, and big, big guns. For the first time, he felt he had a place. For the first, it felt like he had a home. For the first time, he knew what he was going to do with his life. He knew, finally knew, he would not live a somber, quiet life of solitude outside Halifax. The entire galaxy was at his feet, and with weapon in hand, he was going to fight.

Even at that moment, knowing what awaited him, that feeling of air in his chest, lightness in his heart, and the weightlessness in his stomach, remained.

He was marched into the command center, ushered to the elevator, and eventually arrived at the office of Brigadier General Amsterdam. The officer in charge of the detail did not immediately open the door. Instead, he knocked.

"You want a cigarette?"

Frost turned to the sentry on his left. He was a fresh-faced private, no more than eighteen or nineteen years of age. There was no hint of stubble on his face nor any signs of battle. With a shy, gentle smile, he extended a pack of cigarettes with one sticking out.

"No thanks."

"You sure? I don't really smoke so I just give them out to the guys, you know? Why not? It's a nice thing to do, plus they give me stuff like chocolate from their rations or extra coffee. Nine outta ten dudes in my platoon smoke like chimneys."

"You'll be one of the nine, soon enough," Frost said, looking back towards the door.

The door opened and the officer stood at attention. Despite holding their weapons, the detail copied him. General Amsterdam glared at them.

"Detail reporting, ma'am!" the officer stated loudly. She nodded for them to enter.

Frost was marched in. The troopers stopped him only after a few paces and positioned him towards the left of the room. Arrayed between, on, and behind chairs and couches were the leading officers from the entire battle group. Besides Amsterda and her retinue of staff officers, there was ONI Captain Rundstrum, and the Navy masters; Kolchak, Alastair, Kelly, and Slater. As well, Major Holst and Captain De Vos were present along with Colonel Hayes and Major Royce. In the center was a wild-looking vice admiral he never saw before.

By Amsterdam's desk was Lieutenant Commander Jasmine Ebrahimi. Only a few days passed since he last saw her. He caught a glimpse of her optimistic, smiling face just before being locked up. Throughout his brief internment, she was on his mind a great deal. But he did not miss her until he finally saw her. Apart for such little time and his heart seemed to break. He could have broken into tears then, seeing her standing there. Desire to just walk across the room and embrace her gripped him. A great deal of resistance was afforded to stand still.

The moment their eyes met, he smiled. She too, flashed a radiant, hopeful grin at him.

Soon, she was obscured. The group of troopers assembled around him. Standing in front of the detail was the officer, who looked down his nose at Frost. "Gunnery Sergeant Frost, you will now be released from your restraints. Any attempt to escape, or any action deemed combative, will result in non-lethal force from the gentlemen standing behind you."

Frost looked over his shoulder. Standing on either side of the door were two burly, mean-looking, heavily armored Army military policemen. He looked back at the lieutenant. "Do you understand these instructions?"

"Yes, sir."

Just like that, the shackles were removed. They turned around, saluted the general, and departed. Frost watched them go. Once the final man passed through the door, he saw Captain Vivian Waters standing on the right side of the room.

Her body was facing forward but she was looking at him. All of her dirty blonde hair was pulled into a loose bun, with a few locks hanging loose. She seemed a bit paler than usual. There were dark bags under her eyes; just looking at her, there was a general weariness.

Frost looked at all of the ranking officers around him. Unsure of what to do, he puffed his chest out, clicked his heels together, raised his chin, and saluted. "Gunnery Sergeant Frost, reporting."

"At ease," said the vice admiral. "I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Gunnery Sergeant. You've made quite a name for yourself. We've heard mention of Jack the Ripper back at the Mars offices. I bet if you were wearing your dress whites your chest would be full of medals and ribbons."

The admiral possessed a wolfish smile and an alarmingly uncivilized expression in his dark eyes. Something barbaric and primitive that could be unhinged and unleashed at any moment. Despite his gaunt frame and lack of an arm, he was ultimately intimidating.

Before he could find something to say, the admiral approached him. "Do you know me, son?"

"Sir, no sir."

"Vice Admiral Travers. Recently promoted. If you trace the chain of command regarding this project regarding the _I'm Alone_, it ends with me. Well, maybe I'm not the last stop persay, but the second to last. I'm here to end this nonsense. Obviously, you can see there's no UNSC military lawyers here so we're settling this out of court, so to speak." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh white cloth. "Wipe that shit off your face, you're not playing army-man right now, it's time to act like a grown-up."

Frost obeyed the order and wiped the last of the camouflage facial paint from his face. By the time he was finished, the cloth was filthy. He held it up. Travers eyed it with disdain. "Keep it. Now, let's cut to the chase. Did you kill those detained smugglers?"

"Well-"

"Pardon me, did you _murder _the detained smugglers. There's no disputing there's a _lot _of seven-six-two millimeter FMJ-shaped holes in their bodies and an empty MA5B magazine discharged from _your _MA5B assault rifle. So, just run us through the motions, if you please."

Frost told them exactly what he told every other officer who came by to investigate him. One of the smugglers, the one who shot the unknown female prior to the detainment, went for a pistol on the ground to shoot Steele. Frost shot him first; several more tried to rush Steele but Frost gunned them down. The rest tried to run off into the woods. Before they could, Frost killed them all. Going after them with only two available personnel would have been irresponsible regarding search operations. Any number of the smugglers could have hidden in the darkness of the woods and overwhelmed the two Marines had they given chase. What's more, the chance they would escape increased. Maybe they could get one or two, but if the rest ran faster or hid themselves well, there would be hostile personnel over the planet. It was a risk the UNSC presence could not afford.

"Shooting unarmed detainees is not permissible by UNSC military law," General Amsterdam said, rubbing her forehead. "Even though they presented a risk to the security of our operations, we _cannot_, and furthermore, _should not_, harm or kill unarmed prisoners. It's the 26th Century, for God's sake! The fact we're even having this conversation is beyond disgusting. I expected more from you-"

"As far as I'm aware, General Amsterdam," Travers said, turning around, "there's an Army trooper in the stockade who was seized before any hard evidence against him was procured. Sure, he's guilty, we know that, but like every citizen, he has a right to a fair trial. Before criticizing this young man regarding the rules, you ought to follow them yourself."

General Amsterdam turned red in the face and averted her gaze. Travers turned around. "Right. As much as I expected."

He looked at the watch on his wrist. "...right, about, now..."

There was a knock on the door. General Amsterdam got up. Travers raised his hand. "Enter, please."

The door opened and another, different Army detail came in. As the group dispersed, they revealed to have Steele in custody. He was placed in between Vivian and Frost, although closer to the latter.

"Sergeant Steele, you will now be released from your restraints. Any attempt to escape, or any action deemed combative, will result in non-lethal force from the gentlemen standing behind you. Do you understand these instructions?"

"Don't talk to me like I'm fucking twelve. Yes, I understand the bloody instructions. Now, take these fucking things of me' hands."

The officer rolled his eyes but removed the shackles. Formalities were carried out and the detail exited the room. Steele looked over at Frost and smiled. "Look what the cat dragged in," he said.

Frost laughed.

"You're the one who walked in."

Steele snickered and jammed his hands into his pockets. He gazed at all the faces in the room. His smile disappeared. None of them spoke, not even Travers. Steele's gaze hardened into a glare.

"Look, if you think I'm gonna salute ya all, you probably don't know me all too well. So, whatever you're gonna do, shoot me, discharge me, lock me up, or let me go, just get on with it."

"Aptly put, sergeant," said Vice Admiral Travers. "You know why you're here. You know what will happen to you unless you are exonerated by your squadmates' testimony. Their careers rely on yours as well. Now, do go on."

After a brief hesitation, Steele explained what happened from the top. Acting rashly, he admitted, he charged down the hill once the killing took place. After securing the smugglers there was simply no time to restrain them. There were not enough guns on them to keep them from swarming. All the same, one of the smugglers attempted to retrieve his pistol to shoot him. It was by Frost's swift action that he was still alive. Some of the others decided to try rushing him anyways, and the rest tried to flee. Frost gunned them all down. Premediation was out of the question; all the decisions regarding the smugglers were hasty and born from circumstance. None of the options were desirable; they ran from bad to worse and ended with horrible. Coming out clean was an impossibility and to prevent a total disaster, killing them was the best choice. Having smugglers loose on the world, free to access potential stashes or caches, was a threat to their security.

Steele, quite formally, stood up straight. "Vice Admiral, the operation went sideways because I failed to follow Gunnery Sergeant Frost's or Captain Waters' orders, as well as failing to heed the ROE and other operational parameters. Were it not for my actions, you'd have the smugglers in custody and we wouldn't be having this conversation. Sir, if you're going to punish us, hold me solely responsible."

Frost was shocked. He wanted to run over to Steele, grab him by the collar of his fatigue jacket and shake him. No, he wanted to say, you can't, you won't. No, we're friends, we're brothers, where you go, I will go too. If we fall, we fall together. If we die, we die together. Even if he couldn't go over to him, he tried to catch his attention, capture his gaze with his own. To plead with his eyes, to tell him that he did not have to do such a thing. Selflessness had no place in this hearing, or whatever bastardized version of a trial this was. Don't do it, he kept thinking, please don't do it.

Travers seemed less than impressed. His lips were pressed into a long, thin line and his head was cocked to the side. Eventually, he inhaled long and sharply.

"Noted." He glanced at his watch. "Our next guest should-"

There was a knock on the door. "Oh, they're early. Marvelous."

When the door opened, a cadre of troopers came in. It was a much larger detail, at least double the size of Frost and Steel's. In their center was Carris, tall and strong. Her thick black hair was loose and came down to her jaw and her deep blue eyes seemed flat. Unlike her compatriots, she was not shackled upon arrival. As always, she stood straight and soldierly. Often, her suit of armor seemed to obscure her conduct as a military woman. The armor made her movements look automatic and robotic. Out of it, she was every inch a soldier. From her gait to the way she held her shoulders back, one could observe the rigid discipline that filled her veins.

"Petty Officer Carris...Carris...hm, what is it again?" Travers asked with a wave of his hand.

"One-three-seven, sir," Carris answered, folding her hands behind her back.

"Of course it is," Travers sighed. "Well, you were the only one who did not participate in the killings. You observed them through your sniper scope, did you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now, Gunnery Sergeant Frost and Sergeant Steele have both told their sides of the story which corroborate one another. However, in the amount of time in between the shooting and Captain Waters' discovery, they could have hatched this story. You saw what happened, but there's no chance you were privy to it. Unless the comm channels were open. Captain De Vos?"

"Sir, we were operating by close frequencies and channels. To communicate, you would have to activate your headset or helmet earpiece. If you did not, your voice would not carry over any of the nets, not even the TEAMCOM."

"And the mission communications recordings?"

De Vos swiped her data pad and tapped a few keys.

"Recordings indicate that in between the time of the shooting and the time of the confrontation there were no open communication channels. It would have been impossible for the Petty Officer to pick up any chatter."

"Excellent. Now, Carris, you're free to speak. Tell us what happened." Travers put a cigarillo to his lips, took out a strike-anywhere match, swiped it against General Amsterdam's desk, and lit it. After a few puffs, he waved the match until the flame flickered out before flicking it onto the floor. Taking the cigarillo from his lips, he motioned towards her. "Don't have a Bible for you to swear on, but just to be clear, your careers and theirs depend on this. So, tell the truth."

Carris stared at him, long and hard. Frost was watching her; everyone was. Eventually, she looked over at him, then at Steele, followed by Vivian, then finally back at the Vice Admiral. Clenching his teeth, Frost held his breath.

"The smuggler who shot the female suspect attempted to grab his weapon and shoot the sergeant," Carris said. "Frost was forced to fire. Several others did the same immediately afterwards. Others ran. Frost killed them all in order to save himself, Sergeant Steele, and to maintain security in the sector."

Everyone blinked. A few murmured to each other. They looked around, gazes meeting and breaking every few seconds. Frost breathed again. He looked past Carris and saw Vivian. Slowly, she turned her head away and her eyes fell to her feet. Both hands, clenched into fists, unfurled and hung limply by her sides.

Travers took another puff and stepped closer to Carris. He was shorter than her by nearly half a foot, but he moved so fast and severely even she recoiled slightly. Right in her face, he stared into her eyes.

"That corroborates what these two jarheads said. If you were lying, that'd be one hell of a coincidence that it lines up perfectly with their stories. Or you're just plain lucky."

"It's neither luck nor a coincidence, sir," Carris answered firmly, "it's the truth."

Travers grinned devilishly and laughed. He turned on his heel and walked back to the center of the room.

"Well, that's it, then? General Amsterdam, are you satisfied?"

"Yes, sir."

"Waters, you set?"

"Yes, Admiral."

"I'm not. I have significant reservations about the way my men were treated," Hayes began, "and furthermore-"

"I actually don't give a _fuck _what you think, Colonel Hayes," Travers snapped, whirling around and pointing at him with the cigarillo. "Be happy that your leathernecks aren't going to be scrubbing toilets with their toothbrushes and taking cocks up their asses in prison for the next twenty years. You got what you wanted; a settlement outside of the courtroom. That's the best I can do so live with it. Don't like it, write a letter. Carbon-copy me too, I'd love to read it."

Colonel Hayes turned beet red and clenched his teeth. Royce, calm and so quiet one would forget his presence were he not beside his commanding officer, just took a step forward. He made no significant movement or gestures. Maintaining his silence, he just came a little closer to the Vice Admiral. Travers was too busy gloating in himself to notice. He turned around and around, looking at everyone in the room. "There ya have it, folks. Smugglers tried to jump our boys, dumb as they may be, and they got killed. Falls under rules-of-engagement in my book, so the matter is over."

"Shooting running, unarmed men in the back is still unacceptable behavior. I cannot condone such acts as a joint operational commander and a flag officer," Amsterdam said, standing up and planting her hands on the desk.

"Far as I'm concerned, a good Innie is a dead one," Travers said. "The more, the better. But they're not on our radar anymore. I've got dozens of warships in slipspace coming this way. A huge fleet, ready to take the fight to the Covenant. I'm not going to jeopardize Operation: EXALT because the commanding officers of the diversionary and support force are butting heads over such trivial matters. Get your heads out of your asses, get your heads in the game, and get ready for jump off. Otherwise, this mission, and your task force, are scrubbed. Understand?"

"Yes, Vice Admiral Travers," came the resounding, unanimous answer but with variant tones of enthusiasm.

"Good. Now-"

"Sir, I have one request," Vivian said, stepping forward.

Travers was surprised to hear her speak, or at least it seemed so. The stupor which swept over her seemed to evaporate, then. Vivian kept her chin up and her hands folded behind her back. In a matter of moments, she regained a professional exterior and she looked very proud in her gray tunic.

She did not even wait for the Vice Admiral to approve her asking. "Regardless of the shootings, Gunnery Sergeant Frost and Sergeant Steele should be demoted. Steele disregarded orders to hold his position, and Frost failed to assert command over one of his Marines. These acts are inexcusable among the infantry, especially among noncommissioned officers."

Vice Admiral Travers clenched the cigarillo in his teeth for a few moments, tugging on his beard with his newly freed hand. Soon, he nodded his head to the side and took the cigarillo out.

"Colonel Hayes?"

"Admiral, sir?"

"Demote Sergeant Steele to corporal."

Hayes blinked, then turned to face the sniper.

"Sergeant Steele, you have been demoted to corporal. Turn in your stripes and go to the quartermaster to maintain your uniform."

Frost looked at his friend. For a brief moment, a singular instance that lasted for a mere second but seemed to go on for a millenium, he saw disappointment. Not once had Steele cared about the ethos, disciplines, or culture of the Marine Corps. Marching, saluting, ranks, authority, respect, honor, those were all just words to him. Words could hold great power to many; some words actually possessed _meaning _for others. Not to Steele. To him, it was silly, unnecessary, and not worth fighting or dying over. All he wanted to do was fight for the sake of fight, and to get away from home as he often said. But there it was, disappointment. Was it from being punished in general, being singled out, or finally facing the consequences of his poor military attitude? Perhaps, Frost thought, it was all of those reasons combined.

The flash of emotion passed and he shrugged.

"Think I can get some stripes with a zipper? It'll be easier next time I'm busted down."

Travers was the only one who laughed. Stubbing his cigarillo out in the ashtray on Amsterdam's desk, he raised his hand into the air.

"Alright, everybody out except for Waters, Frost, Steele, and Ms. One-Three-Seven."

Slowly, they trickled through the door. All the Navy captain and commanders offered glances of respect to their CO, but glared at the Marines as they passed. De Vos came next, without expression. Holst came between Steele and Frost, bumping the latter with his shoulder. Rundstrum walked after him nonchalantly, winking at the gunnery sergeant. Colonel Hayes patted Frost on the shoulder and offered a sympathetic smile. Royce betrayed no more emotion beyond a curt nod. The Army staff officers came through, professional and unassuming. Jasmine was behind them. She came up to Frost, smiling sadly. Her mouth moved, like she was going to speak. Instead, she remained silent and brushed the back of her hand against his. A mere touch, but it was electrifying. Frost watched her pause by the door to look at Vivian, who smiled at her. He could not see what the doctor's reaction was, and she left a moment later. But it was Amsterdam who lingered.

Glaring at the Vice Admiral, she came around the desk and stood in front of him.

"This is my office."

"It is. Now get out, or I'll have you demoted too," Travers said in an even tone. Grimacing, Amsterdam shook her head and left.

Travers then turned around and faced the remaining four. He sighed happily, smiled wide, and sat on the edge of Amsterdam's desk. "Here we are. I'd love to say, 'together at last,' but that carries implications that I personally don't mirror."

His gaze and tone hardened. "Waters, you're not the only person who can run this show. I know you and many others probably disagree, but I'm not prepared to have an officer who sees ghosts and can't cooperate in a joint operation with other personnel. The only reason I'm keeping you in command is because of your military achievements, the way you inspire the Navy personnel, and, well, I just so happen to like you. I wish a lot of the other officers I've worked with shared your attitude towards engaging with the enemy. Fuckin' fossils..."

He scratched his chin. "But that's the way it is, kids. If you don't make peace or at least just _ignore _each other for the rest of this deployment, you'll do alright by me."

"Uh, Admiral, me and Carris ain't exactly a part of that history. Just saying that for posterity."

"Noted, corporal," Travers said flatly. His attention shifted to Frost. "And you, my lad, I have some good news for you. Seems some concrete facts rather than your legend has gone all the way up to HIGHCOM. They're very impressed that your team managed to reclaim a planet. Got a lot of people at HIGHCOM talking, and a lot more people talking at SPECWARCOM and NAVSPECWAR."

He sidled up to him and put a heavy hand on his shoulder. "After your op, the Commandant of the Marine Corps is pushing for special operations units that fall under Marine jurisdiction. ODST's might be an evolution of Marine doctrine, but their volunteers come from all of the service branches. It's quite possible they're going to reactivate the Marine Raiders. Whether they're going to fall under SPECWARCOM or NAVSPECWAR is as undecided yet, and some are against it. But, it's not a bad idea. Army's got pathfinders, rangers, advisors; Navy's got the ODSTs, even the Air Force has PJ's and controllers. Marines? What do they have?"

Travers let go and began walking towards the window behind the desk. "So, your company is being reformed into a Raider detachment. If your operations prove successful, the 89th MEU and the other MEU's from Hayes project will be reformed into Raider Regiments. Obviously, your company commander will be in charge, but you're the star of the show."

He walked over to Waters. "As much as the Marine Corps hates to admit it, they cannot _do _what they do, and cannot _be _who they are, without the Navy. That's a fact of life. Grass grows, water is wet, and the Marines can't move anywhere without a Navy starship. Part of your duty is to work in junction with the Raider detachment; planning ops, assisting in mission executions. No sidelining, understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. If you can enfranchise the Raiders, NAVSPECWAR might be interested in expanding its own special forces, not just from infantry but to actual task forces." He walked back in front of the group and looked at every single one of them. "There's a lot riding on you. You have to work together. You have to remember you're on the same side. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" they all said, even Steele.

"Good, now get out of my sight. I have to see about establishing our NAVSPECWAR officer on this base."

Without hesitation, the four exited the room.

In the hall, Frost and Steele immediately embraced. They held it for a few moments, slapping each other hard on the back and laughing. When they finally parted, they were still holding each other by the shoulders.

"Boy, bruv, I thought we were royally fucked."

"Me too. I'm sorry about your stripes."

"Ain't nothing to worry about. Besides, I get a feeling that fox in there's got bigger plans for me too. Not sure what that might be, but hey, it's just fucking stripes, right?"

"Right."

After a moment, they hugged again. "Damn, brother, it's good to see you."

"You too, mate."

When they parted again, they turned to face Carris. But she didn't wait for them. Instead, she stormed by, shoulders hunched, head down like she was about to charge, and her hands were curled into fists. She walked so hard and so fast, Frost was surprised he did not see cracks in the flooring each time she took a step. Soon, she disappeared around the corner, opting for the stairs rather than the elevator.

The two Marines looked at each other. Frost was concerned; Carris was the strong and silent type, but anger was not something she defaulted too. Even in circumstances when it was merited, she maintained a cool exterior. Steele seemed more tired and even embarrassed.

"I, uh, better go catch up with her. Make sure she's alright."

"Sure, brother. Tell the squad I'll be around in a few hours. I'm going to see Jasmine."

"Is _see _spelled f-u-c-k?" Steele asked, winking. Frost shoved him away.

"Get outta here, asshole," he laughed. Steele waved and jogged down the hall, turning hard as he rounded the corner.

Frost smiled and shook his head. Sighing long and loud, he braced his hand against the wall and rubbed his eyes with the other. Relieved laughter escaped his lips. He even shivered, as the subtly building adrenaline began to filter out of his system. Feeling cold from his fleeting stress, he rubbed his arms and turned around. Vivian was right there.

If there was anything he could have said, he would have. But nothing came to mind. No words. What could he say to her, anyways? She was not a defeated foe, she was his task group commander. They were not friends in any degree, and to say rivals was not befitting of their relationship. Even rivals could respect one another and frankly, he did, in some strange, twisted way even he could not describe.

It was Vivian who spoke first.

"I'm sorry," she said. She shrugged in exasperation and shook her head. "I'm just sorry. I don't know what else to say. I have a screw loose somewhere, even if almost everybody else doesn't think so. I was standing there thinking my career could be over in a second. If they kicked me out now, I'd probably lose my mind back home. I can't do anything else right now; I'm not sure if I ever can. But that's not what I was thinking about. Instead, I was realizing just how wrong I am, how wrong I have been. I know what you did, and you know where we stand on that. But this, this is different. You had to react to save not only yourself, but your buddy. Here I am trying to throw you in prison. It's that old hate, Frost, that hate I can't seem to get out."

She looked at the ground, shook her head, then wiped her eyes. He did not notice any tears, though. When she looked back up, she seemed more resolute. For a long time, I've been an empty uniform. It feels that way, at least. From now on, I'm going to start being a real leader. I'm going to earn it, not just rely on high marks and advancement programs. You've been a Marine since you first put on the uniform. It's time I became a Navy captain."

Frost stared at her for a long time. He still could not speak. Any words he could have mustered would spill out, meaningless, weightless, and entirely lacking the magnanimity of his opposite's own speech. Anything would have fallen short, so it simply would not have been worth speaking.

Vivian nodded a little. "I'll see you out there, Gunny."

She turned around slowly and began drifting down the hall. The captain seemed so utterly, entirely exhausted. Still, she did not slump or slouch. Despite her weary state, there was an element of strength in the way she walked, a discipline to her stride, something that showed she was an officer of the UNSC Navy. At that moment, as she walked away with her head held high, Frost could not help but admire her.

"Captain Waters."

She stopped and turned halfway around. Frost stepped into the middle of the hallway, clicked his heels together, straightened his back, and snapped his arm upwards in a salute.

For a long time, she stared at him. There was no hint of amusement, surprise, or shame in her gaze. Instead, there was a sad sort of acceptance, something that said she did not deserve it but she still wanted it. Beneath the gray tunic, there was a human with desire and hurt. Frost felt like he was seeing her for the very first time in all his life.

She turned, straightened, and saluted back. It was one of the smartest salutes he ever saw in his entire career. A moment later, she disappeared down the hall, and Frost was alone again. Lowering his arm, he smiled a little and left to find Jasmine.

* * *

**Word Count: **6,120

**Author's Note: **A little dialogue heavy but I think that's alright. Many of the previous chapters were weighted in prose, so I think it's fitting that the characters were able to vocalize more. Granted, it was Travers who did the most talking, but he's an emerging character in this story so it's all the more fitting we feature him, especially do to his physical absence in the previous story.

**Comment Responses:**

**TheShadeOps: **The shit might not have hit the fan just yet, or perhaps it has quite hit the fan. It might be more fitting the shit has indeed made tentative contact with the fan and has definitely made a mess but not too big a mess. Gosh, that's some gross imagery...

**Guest: **I really, _really _wish you could have seen my face when I went back to check the chapters to see I had one from my _Warhammer _story instead. I've always tried to stay organized, but I suppose with the sheer amount of documents on my Doc Manager, it was only a matter of time before I made a mistake. Thanks for pointing that out.

**MightBeGone: **You're not the only one who's excited to see what happens next. Uh, well, that implies I don't know what's happening next, but let me assure you I certainly do know what's happening next. I swear.


	9. Chapter 9: Truth

Chapter 9: Truth

* * *

There was a saying among Navy medical professionals that they were always on call. It was true. At any time, nurses, orderlies, physicians, and surgeons could be ordered off their designated relief times to return to the nearest hospital or medical bay. Shift stability was a figment of the imagination or a sweet dream idealized by doctors who were on their feet for thirty six hours. Front line sectors flooded with casualties were the worst. Pelicans ascended to the ships waiting in orbit packed with casualties. Sometimes, medical bays become so overcrowded makeshift triage and treatment centers were established right in the hangar. Many experienced officers did so as a precaution anyways.

Even in quiet sectors, there was no shortage of wounded. Traffic collisions, misfires on the firing range, aircraft crashes, malfunctioning automated machinery, and leaking hazardous materials could send hundreds to the planetside hospital in minutes. As sophisticated technology became in the 26th Century, it was still dangerous. Humor error was not eradicated by progress either, nor disease. Un-vaccinated civilians drawn from all over the colonies brought contagious illnesses with them. Combined with the UNSC military's packed living quarters, bases and ports became perfect breeding grounds for a contagion. Dozens could end up at the infirmary requiring treatment and vaccination drives were common. At any moment, pagers were buzzed and data pads pinged with notifications calling all available medical personnel to the nearest facility.

Although she was the top Navy doctor in the entire sector, effectively acting as her own boss, Jasmine Ebrahimi was not exempt from such services. When her subordinates contacted her and advised her to assist, she answered. Administrative capacities and conferences with other fleet officers came second to treating the wound. Lifesaving was and would always be her first responsibility.

As the rainy day passed into afternoon, however, and her data pad was silent. While catastrophes were not common at the Port, and most of the total population was vaccinated according to her records, she was always braced for one. Like an invading Covenant fleet, a calamity possessing potential to incapacitate hundreds was always a common possibility.

But there was nothing. Sitting at the desk in her personal quarters, she waited and waited for something to happen. Going to the window, she looked back out over the base. Activity was still high but every operation was running smoothly.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she clasped her hands together and smiled. Perhaps she was just defaulting to a typical mindset that good acts were followed by bad ones. He was free and cleared of his charge. For days, she was waiting to hear that once again he was killing regardless of orders, rules of engagement, or military law. Legends of his monstrosity were simply just that, legends. Whatever embers of truth lay within were gone with the past. Everyone liked to make him out to be a killer, but he was a Marine. More than that, he was a good man.

Jasmine wanted to see him. But she put herself in his boots; he was just out of a cell for the first time in days. Doubtless, he wanted fresh food and drink, and to check on his squad too. Inside her was that eagerness to be her partner's entire world. It was inside everyone, she imagined. Maturity and respect metered it, even if she wanted to see him so badly. Frost would come see her later, when he was rested and ready.

The door suddenly opened. Jasmine jumped in response. Frost walked in and recoiled when he saw her.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "I thought you went back to your office. I wanted to come here and surprise you, whoa!"

Jasmine ran across the room, leaped at him, and coiled her arms around his neck. He caught her and spun her around. They both laughed. When he finally set her down, they kissed. It made Jasmine's heart soar.

"I knew it! You're innocent, I knew you were. What a _gigantic _waste of time! It's so, _so _good to see you, Nate."

"You too, Jas," he said, burying his face into her neck. He inhaled then and a chill ran down her spine. Holding back a contented sigh was impossible. "I don't care if it's been a few days. I _missed _you."

"I missed you, too," she said into his ear. Few days be damned, she thought. It may have sounded childish, but she did not care. He was her sweetheart and he was back where he belonged: with her. "Don't you want to see your friends?"

"They're adults, they can wait for a little while longer. I'm sure Steele and Carris went to see them to break the news."

They parted somewhat, still keeping their arms around each other. Jasmine ran one of her hands up the back of his head, into his hair, and dug her fingers into his thick locks. She then ruffled his hair a little bit. "Look at you! You're filthy! They didn't let you wash?"

"Not. Once."

"I know a few military policemen who are going to have some very uncomfortable physicals next time they step into my office.

"Oh my God, that's terrifying," Frost laughed.

"C'mon, it's time for a wash," jasmine said excitedly, grabbing his hand and leading him to the bathroom.

"You know I'm not five, I can bathe myself," he laughed.

"Where's the fun in that!?" Jasmine giggled.

Squeezing into the bathroom, she helped him undress. For a moment, she regretted her decision as three days worth of musk, body odor, sweat, outdoor scents, and the sterility of prison cells reeked from his skin and clothes. Quickly grabbing a small, open hamper issued by the quartermaster's department, she stuffed his uniform into it and left it outside by the door. Returning to the bathroom, Frost stood in front of the toilet inspecting himself, rubbing his scruffy beard and tugging at long locks of hair. Jasmine went past him, pulled the shower curtain back, and turned the knob. Hot water flowed from the shower-head and steam soon filled the entire bathroom.

As the pleasant sound of falling water drowned out the noise of the outside world, Jasmine shut the door and began to undress. She tossed her uniform to the corner of the bathroom and turned to face him. Frost was already looking at her and blushed. A nervous smile tugged at his lips and he rubbed the back of his head.

She went over to him, hugged him again, and looked up at him while resting her chin on his chest. Both hands went to her waist, heavy and warm. Jasmine stood on his feet and giggled as he walked them over to the shower. It was difficult, awkward, and they both enjoyed it.

Before they got in, Jasmine remembered to fetch the stool she kept in the bathroom. Placing it in the center of the tub, she pointed at it like an owner would to their pet. Rolling his eyes, Frost sat down and let the hot water spill over his body. Dirt washed from his hair and the last few tinges of camouflage paint at the edges of his face trickled down his neck.

For a while, she just watched him; leaning forward, head hung down, arms resting on his knees, just enjoying the hot water. Eventually, he sat back up and sigh long and loud. All his hair came down around his face, obscuring his eyes. With a flick of his thumb, he cleared his vision and smiled at her cheekily. Reaching past him, she took the standard issue shampoo, squeezed some into her palm, then rubbed them together. Once the gel turned to a soapy white foam, she dug both hands into his hair and wildly scrubbed the shampoo in. Frost laughed as she toyed with his hair. She smoothed it, spiked it, tangled it, and eventually dunked his head back under the water. Grit ran with the water and flowed down the drain.

Jasmine took the bar of soap and began running it over his skin. She made sure to cloak her other hand in suds, and began rubbing it over his chest. As she did, she leaned into him, letting the hot water soak her hair and run down her back. Soap suds clung to her neck, chest, and stomach, tickling her skin. At one point, she rested her chin on top of his head as she scrubbed his chest. Eventually, she formed a great cloud of suds on her hands. Taking a clump from it, he ran the soap down his legs and washed his feed.

Frost stood up to rinse. Jasmine stepped back, taking the stool away. So much steam was filling the room, she imagined she would lose sight of him if she was standing a few feet away from him. As he ran his hands along his arms, chest, and legs, the white soap suds washed away. His pale skin seemed to glow in the muted, warm glow of the overhead light.

It was still strange to see him out of his uniform. If Frost was not in his battle dress, he was still in his fatigues. Like all military clothes, they were snug and held the body. Jackets and shirts emphasized muscles and made a man look far larger than he really was. Now, without a single stitch of clothing, he looked far smaller than he usually did. While he was not terribly skin, he was not bulky either. Most of his musculature was well defined, nearly chiseled from a statue. There were many scars on his back and sides; near-misses, grazes, and the general chaos of war, defining his flesh.

How much blood had he spilled in service of his species, Jasmine wondered. How much did one have to bleed until it was enough?

Just before she lost herself in her thoughts, Frost turned around, took her by the wrists, and gently pulled her into him. Hot water poured over them as they kissed again. Pressed into each other, skin to skin, arms around one another, Jasmine felt so warm. She felt safe, and above all else, happy. Each time she found herself in his arms, there was a great wave of joy that swept over her. All her life, she thought it would simply never happen. Love was not for her. There would be no one to share in those tender emotions people so rarely spoke about. Life would continue without that close confidante, that one individual whose eyes were only for her, who knew her more intimately than anyone else in the entire galaxy. Throughout her life, she desired it, but believed it would not happen. Such persons existed in delightful fairy tales and corny romantic films. But he was real.

They turned the water off and stepped out. Steam still swirled around the room, slowly sucked through the vent in the ceiling. Before they completely dried off, she took the stool out of the tub and set in front of the vanity. Frost did not need to be told to sit down. Using her hand to wipe the condensation from the mirror, she pulled out a pair of small grooming scissors and a comb. Fixing his hair until it was straight, she turned his head in different directions, observing him in the mirror.

"Hey, just be careful with those things. I don't need to end up in the infirmary with a pair of scissors jabbed in my skull," he joked.

"Have a little faith in me, Nate," Jasmine said in a low, concentrated, but ultimately teasing tone, "I am a doctor, after all."

"I know, that's what I'm scared of!"

"I've never lost a patient, and you won't be the first," Jasmine assured him comically.

_Snip. Snip. Snip. _Quickly, but carefully, she began cutting his hair. It was not so much as a total haircut. Rather, it was just a trim to avoid breaching grooming standards. Although most senior officers entirely disregarded the grooming standards defined in the UNSC military handbook, some personnel took it more seriously than others. For Jasmine, it was just a meter to go by to achieve an even length. Regulations did not even enter her mind as the scissors went along his thick shock of hair and light brown strands dusted the towel around his shoulders.

After she finished, she combed his hair until it was swept back in its normal fashion. Using a smaller towel, she wiped the little hairs clinging to his forehead and face. Carefully, she unraveled the hair-covered towel from his shoulders and managed to toss it on the hamper with his dirty fatigues.

She went around in front of him to put the scissors away. A little squeak passed her lips when she felt his hands on her waist. They guided her back to the stool and sat her down. Watching him in the mirror, she saw him take her hairbrush from her personal grooming kit. Kneeling behind her, he took one of her thick, black locks into his hand and brought the brush slowly through it several times.

"Did your sisters ever make you brush your hair?" Jasmine asked, sitting with her legs crossed and hands folded in her lap.

"Only Sadie. When we were younger, she had really, really long hair. It went down farther than yours, past her waist. It used to get her in trouble; some of her school teachers thought our parents were providing basic care for her. A social worker got sent around to find two parents and five healthy, well-fed, good-looking kids. One of them just had especially long hair. Oh, my parents were so mad at the school. Sadie wore her hair like that for a little while longer. Last time I saw her, she wore it far shorter."

There was a hint of sadness in his voice at the end. She tried to catch a glimmer of it in his misty gray eyes, but was unable to. So she just reached up, caught his cheek, and turned to face him. Rubbing her thumb through his electric brown stubble, she pulled him down and kissed him again. He smiled at her as her thumb settled on the corner of his lips. His cheeks were pink.

Without another word, he continued brush her hair until it was smoother than it ever was. When he finished, he set it on the vanity and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed the top of her head and buried his nose in her hair. Jasmine reached up and caressed his cheek.

"All done?"

"All done."

"Do you want to go see your squad?"

"No."

Frost took her hands and stood her up. She turned around and draped her arms around his neck again. In turn, he picked her up and carried her over to her bed by the widow. Jasmine could feel her heart rate increase and her cheeks heat up.

He laid her down on the bed, keeping one hand on her cheek and running the other down her side and leg.

"Are you sure?" Jasmine asked, her breath heavy.

"Yes."

He leaned down and kissed her again, slow and deep. Jasmine ran one hand up his arm and dug her fingers into his hair. Slowly, he crawled down, planting kisses on her breasts and stomach. When he spread her legs, Jasmine gasped.

* * *

"Move, move, move, move, move! Move in. Carris, keep tracking them."

Frost stepped into the light, keeping his assault rifle trained on the nearest smuggler. In his peripheral vision, he saw Steele thrust forward with his DMR.

"You, you lot right here, get over there! Move, move! Slowly, _slowly_!" he ordered, keeping his weapon aimed at them with his trigger hand and motioning to the designated spot in the light with his other hand.

Frightened, frantic, and uncoordinated, the smugglers in their dark clothes began forming a line. They kept their hands in the air as they tripped and stumbled around each other.

The smugglers were moving too slowly. Frost began to worry they were stalling as they prepared to make a move. Seeing Steele look at him, Frost used the flat of his hand to signal 'move in.' Steele nodded and they closed in on the smugglers. Keeping their rifles in their trigger hands, they pushed and shoved with their free hand. At some point, just to maintain control over the detainees, they pointed their weapons at them directly or prodded them with the barrels. Catching Captain Waters crouching by the blown out tire of the buggy, he felt assured they had growing control over the situation.

Once they were lined up, Steele began going up and down the line, shoving his DMR in their faces. "Put your hands behind your head! Behind your head! Slowly! Don't look at my fucking face, put your hands behind your head!"

"Search them, search them!" Vivian commanded from behind. "Search each one then put them on their knees, hands behind their heads."

"On it!"

As Steele began rifling their bodies, Frost looked down at the fresh corpse just beside him. She was not moving and her skin was already pale. All the light from her young, hazel eyes was gone. So much blood leaked from the bullet wound in her forehead that it was black as charcoal. Dark blood continued to seep out in all directions, going down her temples and onto her nose. Some of it was beginning to pool in her eye sockets. Most went back into hair, which was thick and sticky with it. A great deal was beginning to flow onto the uneven, churned ground she was laying on. It came from the gaping exit wound in the back of her skull. He could see bone and flesh, and the singed hair around it. It was like looking at a punctured fruit. A fleshy substance that was gray, blue, and red was leaking from both nostrils. It took Frost a moment to realize these were her brains. On the ground near her head were dozens of tiny bits of skull, flesh, and brains. Snowflakes began settling on her torso and face.

She was so young, so young that it seemed like his heart would break. He did not know her but he did not need to. It was tragic to see her, still in her youth, dead in dirt. Old people were supposed to die, to pass away. That was something all people accepted. Even with colonies burning and millions dying, it was far away, even for Marines like him. So many Marines he fought with were dead and some were not even twenty. But he came to terms with it, knowing death was a capacity that was likely for all in the service. This girl, this unknown, unknowable girl, just got caught up in the wrong gang. Now, she was dead. If she had family, there would be a hole in it. Whatever her future was, whether it was good or bad, bound for riches or poverty, to reside in happiness or depression, and subject to the free will and choice that life gave all humans, was gone.

"Did you check her?" Vivian asked from beside him. Frost only noticed then she was kneeling beside the body. At first, he could not answer. His mouth was so dry that his tongue felt like a rock.

"Not yet," he managed.

"You got them?" she asked, pointing towards the miners.

"Affirmative."

Vivian checked for a pulse. Frost did not know what she was expecting. People could survive head wounds, but not one like that. Her _brains _were all over the place.

A moment later, the captain was back on her feet. "Dead," she said, her voice thick with nausea.

"Fuck, I knew we'd get caught...I knew it," one of the smugglers said.

"Shut up," another snapped, "don't tell'em anything."

"Fuck you. I don't wanna go to jail."

"Keep quiet and you won't."

"We took this too far, man. This wasn't worth the money."

"Shut up! Nobody squeals!" snarled the one who did the shooting.

"I got a family man, I'm not gonna leave them out there alone!" another pleaded.

"Me too, I'm spilling."

A look of rage crossed Steele's face as he finished checking another man.

"Everybody shut the fuck up!" he shouted, patting another one down. "Shut up, keep your hands behind your head. Don't look at our fucking faces, keep those fucking eyeballs on the ground."

He continued going down the line. When he finished with the last one, he shoved him to the ground and joined Frost and Vivian in front of the prisoners.

"Keep your eyes on them," Captain Waters ordered. "Frost. Call it in."

But Frost wasn't listening. His gaze fell to the dead girl beside him. More snow was accumulating on her body. When he blinked, he was not sure if he was in the yard of the mine or on a hillside on Skopje. Even the body looked different; at one moment, she was the dead smuggler, and in the next instant, she was wearing the tattered battle dress uniform of an Army trooper.

He gripped his assault rifle tighter. "Frost." Snapping back to attention, he looked at her. Vivian gave him an imploring look. "Call it in."

"Copy. Raider Red Six, this is Raider Red Seven here. We've entered the complex and captured fourteen foot mobiles. How copy, over?"

"Raider Red Seven, your orders were to hold position. Why did you proceed into the complex? Over."

Frost looked up and glared at Steele. The sniper shrugged a little.

"We were forced to react, over," he said reluctantly.

"You better have a good explanation ready for General Amsterdam," De Vos warned him over the comms, "Raider Red Seven, out."

"We need more light, we don't want any friendly-fire incidents when the QRF arrives," Steele suggested. He pointed at the big burly fellow who fired his pistol. "Where's the power source for the lights?"

"I'm not fucking telling you shit, pig!" the smuggler retorted. Without any hesitation, Steele stormed over to the man and struck him in the face with the butt of his DMR.

"Do not bash those fucking prisoners!" Vivian ordered. "You're way out of line, sergeant!"

One of the nearby captives, no doubt in fear from being hit himself, raised his head.

"There's a master control panel in the foreman's office, second floor," he whimpered. Looking in the direction he indicated, Frost saw the high office beyond the prefabricated structures that were erected all over the mining complex."

Vivian turned around and looked at Frost. At that moment, she seemed to be a true infantryman, holding her rifle ready, her battle dress uniform in good order, helmet snug on her head, and face painted in camouflage.

"I've got it," she said resolutely.

"Be careful," Frost warned, "there might be a joker around here we haven't spotted. Carris, keep an eye out."

"Copy that," she said coldly over the comms.

Vivian trotted off and disappeared in the darkness. Frost kept his rifle trained on the line of kneeling detainees. Even though the weapon stayed in place, his gaze did not. He could smell the inside of her head, a disgusting aroma of musky innards and the coppery taste of blood. Her head, parts of her actual head, were in the snow covered soil. Her skin was so pale that it was turning blue. Every single feature of her face was frozen in fear.

Nobody should die in fear, Frost thought to himself.

"I did that bitch a favor."

Frost looked up. The burly man who pulled the trigger was looking at him. From the flat expression on his face, he could see he felt no remorse.

"I'm at the foreman's office. Going in now," Vivian said over the SQUADCOM.

"Copy," Steele said. He turned and looked at Frost. "Don't listen to this fucking shit heel."

"I'm telling you, it was mercy. Seeing this guy right here?" the big man said, motioning to the other mean looking fellow to his left. "We knew she was going to double-cross us. We were going to lose a whole bunch of money that could get us out of this shithole. He was so mad, he was planning to take her and fuck her until she couldn't walk anymore."

The overhead industrial lighting rigs flashed on. A few seconds passed. Frost's legs carried him forward.

"Nate, what're you doing?" Steele asked, stepping towards him. Frost shouldered him out of the way, aimed his rifle, and pulled the trigger. A bullet smashed into the man's forehead, blowing out the back of his skull. He immediately fell forward.

All of the detainees looked at the body in shock. Gritting his teeth as his eyebrows and cheeks twitched, Frost aimed at the group to the right of the body. He squeezed the trigger and cut them all down. The remaining detainees all stood up and tried to run. Turning and firing from the hip, he killed them all too.

As the smoke from his barrel disappeared into the wind, he lowered it. A single breath escaped his lips.

Steele looked at the bodies. "Fuck man, we gotta make this look real."

He knelt down, grabbing one of the sidearms and planted it near the body. He did the same with another, and began doing the same with a third.

"Hey! Hey!" Vivian came marching out of the darkness. "What happened!? What the _fuck _happened!?" She went right up to Frost and ripped the rifle out of his hands. It was as if all strength left his body. He simply did not have the will to resist. Vivian deftly ejected the magazine from the rifle before she tossed it on the ground. She shoved him very hard in the chest. "Did you kill those prisoners!? Why? Why? Why'd you do it!? And what are you doing? Are you planting that weapon? Are you planting that goddamn weapon?"

Steele dropped the pistol and stood up angrily.

"Guess you haven't changed, huh captain?" These fucking guys went for their pistols! They tried to jump us! They almost had me but Frost took care of them."

"Bullshit," Vivian spat.

"Oh, bullshit?" Steele sneered.

"_Bullshit! _You're covering for him!"

"Why the fuck would I lie about this?" Steele asked, exasperated. "There were only two of us, they tried to kill us, and we defended ourselves! What more do you want?"

"I don't believe a goddamn word!"

"I'm telling you," Steele insisted, "they tried to rush us. We reacted! Frost, fucking tell her man!"

Vivian looked at him. Frost looked at her for a moment before looking back at the bodies. His heart began to race, his mind swirled in fractured memories. He suddenly realized he didn't know where he was or who he was talking to. His fingers twitched and flexed, he began to sweat, and he felt utterly terrified. What had he done? Everything just went black.

"We reacted," he finally said. "Those fools tried to rush us and we had to shoot them. Poor fools..."

"See? We don't hose prisoners," Steele stated triumphantly.

"You're lying. You're both lying."

###

The words echoed in Frost's ears as he stared at the white ceiling above Jasmine's bed. She was laying beside him with her head and hand on his chest. Her black hair was blanketing the arm he curled around. Jasmine was breathing steadily and quietly, and it washed over his skin. There was a small smile on her face.

But Frost did not see it. He could not bear to look at her. All he could see was the body of that girl, with her brains coming out her nose and missing the back of her head. With her were so many other broken bodies.

Slowly, his other hand rose up and grabbed a clutch of his light brown hair. Inhaling shakily as tears brimmed at the corners of his eyes, he shook his head slightly. There was a terrible burning behind his forehead.

* * *

Steele hurried down the hall of the barracks. He came to the communal room for their floor and walked in. The entire squad was there.

"Where's Carris?" he asked, slightly out of breath. Everyone let out a cheer and rushed towards him. They hugged him, slapped him on the back, bumped their fists against his arms, and shook his head. Each one of his squad mates were laughing, greeting, and congratulating him so loudly he could not make himself heard.

It was only after several minutes of minor pushing and cursing at them to give him so room. Even then, they were still badgering him with questions regarding the mission, his interment in the Army stockade, and the trial which exonerated them. Getting quite flustered, Steele stepped back into the hall slightly and raised both hands to finally quell them.

Realizing he would get no answers, he explained in full. By the end, they were still carrying on.

"Demoted!? That's some rough shit!"

"You sure that Admiral wasn't some kinda ONI spook?"

"Fuck that guy!"

"It's really good to see you, mate."

"Where in the world is Frost, I want to see him too."

"Can you all please just _shut the fuck up_, please!?" Steele shouted. Finally, silence fell over the elated looking squad. "Can somebody tell me where Carris is? I need to talk to her. Has she been by?"

"She ain't been around here."

"Fuck," Steele breathed and began going down the hall.

"Hey, where are you going!?"

"You just got back!"

"Come on, mate!"

"Fuck off!" Steele spat over his shoulder.

He stormed down the stairs all the way to the ground level of the barracks. Bursting through the doors, he observed the vehicle and foot traffic in the rain. A cold wind passed through the base, ruffling his dirty fatigues. Soon, his blonde mop of hair became matted on his head. Looking at every passerby or group of soldiers, he looked for her. Everywhere, among everyone, he looked for the head of black hair and pale, doll-like skin.

Steele wiped the rain from his eyes. "Fuck me, how do I lose a seven foot tall broad...? It's not like she's hard to fucking _spot!_" he exclaimed out loud. "Half the time she's right under my boot!"

That's when he heard a sound he was well-accustomed too. _Pop, pop, pop. _It was a pistol report, a tell-tale sound of the M6C Magnum sidearm.

Steele took off in the direction of the firing range. Several times, he cut across traffic, forcing a Warthog to come screeching to a halt. The driver honked the horn angrily and shouted a string of obscenities his way. Steele paid him no mind as he hurried along. At one point, a Scorpion drew in front of him. Nimbly, he leaped onto the jump see on one of the massive tread covers, jogged over the main body, and jumped from the other side.

When he came to the entrance of the firing range, a wide open area with a line of sandbags in front of the sandy area containing targets, he found it entirely empty. Only a checkpoint guard at the entrance stood in his sentry post, gazing at the terminal and occasionally looking up through the window. Standing alone along the sandbags was Carris.

She was holding in a perfect firing position, holding the pistol in both hands and keeping her feet planted firmly on the ground. She was wearing her fatigue trousers but not the blouse, opting instead for a solid green t-shirt. Like his own hair, her's was soaked and fell in rings around her head. Sliding another magazine into the firearm, he fired at another target. In a matter of seconds, all twelve rounds struck the paper target, depicting an angry Elite, center mass.

Taking a breath, Steele walked over to her. "Carris," he greeted as he approached, "I've been looking for you. What's going on?"

At that moment, the gentle rainfall seemed to intensify. Carris ejected the empty magazine, flicked the safety off, and lowered the weapon. Her eyes gazed down range.

"I need to catch up on my marksmanship," she said flatly.

"Only been a couple of days, love."

"Too long."

Steele swallowed a little. For the first time since they met, he could not read her entirely. Anger was all he could discern from her tight facial expression.

"How did you know what I came up with? The comms were closed. You couldn't possibly hear from that range."

Carris looked at him, maintaining her expression.

"My binoculars," she said after a moment's hesitation. "They're equipped with a sound direction feature. Up to a certain distance, it can pick up any sound. It's an expensive piece of gear from the NAVSPECWAR arsenal, and I made sure it wasn't on me when I was disarmed. Nobody, not even you, knew I brought it with me."

"What made you bring it this time?"

"I've brought it with me on every op for many years," Carris answered. "I'll have to get another one."

Steele nodded slowly, then shock clouded his expression.

"So, you knew. You lied for us." He smiled. "You're a real lifesaver, Carris. If it wasn't for you, Frost would probably be on his way to Reach."

He stepped towards her and went to pat her on the shoulder. Instead, she smacked it away very hard. Steele winced and clutched his hand. "Fucking hell, Carris. What was that for?"

"I didn't do it for him. I did it for you. I _lied _for you." She shook her head. "I lied so you didn't go to prison with him. Because I wanted you to stay with us. With me. It was selfish, and it was wrong."

"Carris-"

"I didn't care about all the stories everyone told about Frost. I even accepted his and the Captain's history, because I believed the two could resolve it. Instead, I watched him shoot fourteen unarmed prisoners. Guilty or not, smugglers or not, it was against the law. It was wrong and there's no way you can justify it to me or to anyone else."

"Carris, wait-"

"You don't know the full extent of how I became a soldier. To anyone else, you'd probably think it immoral. Maybe it is, objectively. But I was not trained to be a machine. I was trained to be a _soldier. _And the creed of the UNSC was instilled in me. It might mean nothing to you, but it does to me." She tapped her heart. "My entire career, I have strived to maintain the tenets and obey the law. And this morning, I finally broke them for my own selfish desires. I'm ashamed of myself."

Steele reached forward, trying to take her hand. She slapped it away. He came closer, trying to close the distance. But Carris shoved him so hard he fell down. When he sat up, she was towering over him. He looked up at her, wide-eyed. "I've protected a _murderer_. My squad leader is a _murderer. _Now, I have to take orders from a _murderer_, because he's your friend. Where he goes, you go. Where you go, so do I."

She wiped her eyes. If there were tears, he could not make them out in the rainwater coursing down her cheeks.

"It's not what you think. He's not like that. Nate is...he's just troubled sometimes, alright? It won't ever happen again."

"Forgive me if I don't feel reassured," Carris said in an unimpressed, nearly sarcastic tone. "But there's one thing they shouldn't have done, and that's take your stripes away. You should be in charge of the squad, not him. We can't trust a man like that. He's unstable. Unbalanced." She then shook her head and made a sort of chuckle. "Are you much better? A chain smoking, empty uniform, who would rather cover up his friend's crimes than do the right thing? Is that who we want in charge?"

Carris bent over, grabbed him by the collar of his fatigue jacket, and placed him back on his feet. But she roughly let go.

"Carris, can't we just talk about it?"

"No. Not yet, at least." She slid the M6C into her holster and turned around, heading for the armory.

"Wait, love!"

"Leave me alone," she said over her shoulder. Then she stopped and looked at him, "and don't call me that, anymore."

* * *

**Word Count: **6,078

**Author's Note: **_I'm Alone: Exalt _has just broken a 1,000 views and that's very reassuring to me. I remember it took far longer for the original _I'm Alone _to achieve that number, so I just want to thank the returning readers who have waited patiently for the sequel and these weekly updates, who also read through the entire first story. A hearty thank you as well to new readers who have taken the time to check this story out and have gone back to read the first one. Really, I appreciate you all.

**Comment Responses: **

**TheCarlosInferno: **Looks like things have taken a turn, haven't they? Save for Nate and Jas's quiet, tender moment, but even that is a mask for loneliness and trauma. War is on the horizon, but who is to say our characters are prepared for it.

**TheShadeOps: **For a separate, potential project, I've been taking time to carefully research modern special operations forces in the United States and the Western world. Although the focus has mainly revolved around the 75th Ranger Regiment, the Regimental Reconnaissance Company, and Army Special Forces, I've taken a lot of time to study joint commands and separate special operations units. MARSOC can now trace its lineage back to the Marine Raiders, so I've been studying their modern iteration and the original conception in preparation for the rationalization of the UNSC version.

**MightBeGone: **Joking aside, I know the direction of the story and I think I've tweaked it to be engaging and entertaining. Your gut was right, it was far sooner than later. Although, I doubt this was this interaction you were hoping for between Steele and Carris. If you're worried, and without wishing to spoil, I'll say don't worry too much and don't give up hope. And no worries, I do enjoy a thicc review now and again.

**Qrs-jg: **Glad you like him; that's the desired persona Travers is designed to have. And I don't think you're awful at all. I know the direction of the story but I'll refrain from commenting to avoid spoilers.


	10. Chapter 10: Lie

Chapter 10: Lie

* * *

Frost opened his eyes. Blinking, he looked around. It took him a moment to remember he was in Jasmine's quarters. It must have been the third or fourth time he stirred. Although he was not dogged by any dreams, he just could not stay asleep. Each time he managed to drift into sleep, it was deep, peaceful, bordering on blissful, even. Marines were trained to snatch sleep whenever they could, whether it was a couple of hours during their off-shift on overwatch or twenty minutes during a convoy stop. Most civilians could not imagine functioning on twenty minutes of rest sprinkled through a day fraught with combat, movement, and hard work. But Marines took it all in stride and carried out their duty. Considering there was a roof over his head and he was in an actual _bed _with a woman beside him, he might as well have been on leave.

His gaze settled on her; she was under the sheet with him and her head was resting on his chest. Her black hair, tinged with a few golden locks, obscured her face. Smiling, he hooked his fingers around some of the wispy hair and brushed it aside. Jasmine's soft, tan skin, smooth lips, and small nose were revealed. For a long time, he stared at her peaceful face and enjoyed the feeling of her breath washing across his chest. Watching her chest slowly rise and fall was very pleasing. A tiny smile tugged at her lips.

Seeing her happy, even as she slept, made Frost just as glad. Leaning over, he planted a tender, soft kiss on her lips. When he withdrew and opened his eyes, he saw her smile widen a little. His dog tags slid down the chain around his neck, jingling and clinking pleasantly. Jasmine's own chain fell sideways down her chest and the two tags rested on his chest. The metal was cool against his skin.

Carefully, he reached over and picked up his watch from the metal nightstand. The small screen showed the temperature and date as well as the time. It was ten degrees celsius, although his thumb covered up the date but he could care less about it. Just as he blinked the last crusts from his eyes, the minute ticked by and the watch read eighteen-hundred hours.

The mess hall was bound to be packed by that hour. Usually, the evening meal times were between seventeen-hundred and twenty-hundred hours, but eighteen hundred was the rush hour for most of the off-duty personnel. As hungry as he was, he decided to wait another hour before going to meet up with the squad.

Although he really wanted to see them, he didn't want to give up this time with Jasmine. As well, going to dinner with the team as well as her seemed like it would be very fun. Everyone would be happy as they dug into their meals. Jolly and full, they would know their first true respite in many months. He wanted to make the most of it; Operation: EXALT was looming on the horizon.

Already, he was dreading the day when he was going to have to assemble the squad for training. While weapon drills occurred nearly every day when they were not working within the company, the entire 89th MEU was going to be training for the assaults they were going to make. That meant long stints out in the hinterland of the Port, practicing war games, performing mock assaults, and completing the necessary training to fulfill their new ranks and promotions.

Times like these were becoming rare in these days of the war. Personnel across all service branches were being promoted up the chain of command even though most did not have the necessary training, time in grade, or education to fulfill the roles of each Military Occupational Speciality. Tracing his recent string of promotions down from gunnery sergeant, staff sergeant, and sergeant, he had barely committed any of his qualification training and reeducation. He knew during this retraining period he would have to complete the required coursework; the UNSC Marine Corps not only prided itself on tradition and military prowess, but their paperwork.

Thinking about it, he was both excited for the challenge but was not looking forward to going into a classroom again. Enlisting in the Marine Corps was his way of escaping that institutional ladder. It seemed like a thousand years ago when he was promoted to corporal and he was contented with that rank. Teo was an excellent squad leader and relished the authority unique to a non-comissioned officer. Back then, it seemed like he or any of their comrades were invincible.

Frost sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He wished he could fall back asleep. What he dreaded most were the times he was awake when everyone else was asleep. Even if one other person was up, he could get out of bed and talk with them, or at the very least, engage with them through work or training. Any kind of human distraction was enough to get him out of his own head. Here, he was a prisoner in his own bed and was helpless against his own, racing, muddled thoughts.

As much as he wanted to stay and go back to sleep, he couldn't bear the thought of laying in bed awake for another hour. Reluctantly, he peeled Jasmine's arm from her chest and tucked it against her breast. Kissing her again and running his hand gently across her slender frame, he sat up. He did his best not to take the blanket off her and managed to creep out without disturbing it much. Once he was out of the bed, he reached over, took the corner, and draped it back across Jasmine's shoulders so she was tucked in up to her chin.

"Where are you going?" she said in a drowsy voice. Frost nearly jumped, as he was turning away.

"I'm going to go for a little walk, catch some air," he said, whispering close to her ear. She smiled as she felt his breath on her. Smirking, he reached over and ran his thumb across her cheek. "Do you want to come with me?"

"Maybe next time, Nate. It's cold outside," she whispered. "Sorry."

"Don't be," he said back, kissing her temple. "Next time. I won't be too long, okay?"

"Put a coat on."

"Don't worry," he chuckled.

Frost kept a spare set of fatigues in Jasmine's room as well as some generally comfortable clothing. He went over to the bureau, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled them out. After he was dressed, he pulled out a UNSCMC zipper hoodie that was light gray and had a small icon of the UNSC logo over the left breast. It was a versatile piece of clothing that could be used as on-base wear or in tactical settings when one did not, or could not, wear the standard battle-dress uniform.

After putting on a pair of fresh socks and his black boots, he went out into the hall. Immediately, he looked left and right. It was unsurprising to find it empty. Stuffing his hands into the pockets of the hoodie, he trundled down the hall towards the nearest exit.

Fluorescent lights were installed every few meters in the ceiling, casting a sharp white glow over the floor. It was like walking in and out of shade with half a dozen paces. The stark lights cast an eerie glow up and down the hall. As for the hall itself, it was devoid of any details or characteristics, save for the locked doors and keypads lining the walls on either side. Empty and stark, save for a pair of vending machines tucked into just outside the common area for Jasmine's floor. Feeling peckish, he decided to see what they had.

What a luxury, Frost thought to himself as he looked up and down the contents. There were a host of brand name candy bars, up to the unhealthiest ones which were plastered on every television advertisement he saw as a kid and down to the most obscure types which got less air time but were just as bad for the teeth. Below the candy bars were bags of flavored chips, featuring the typical, tried and trusted potato chip to some rather spicy cheese types that did not appear appetizing in the slightest. At the very bottom were bags of similar size but containing snacks like wafer biscuits, popcorn balls, and bite-sized cookies. The other vending machine contained various drinks; plain water, flavored water, vitamin water, a multitude of juices, and some weak soft drinks.

Tapping his foot, he gazed at the selections. He looked for the sake of looking, he already knew what he was going to get. Taking out his ID badge, he flashed it across the scanner. A processing symbol appeared, followed by a notification declaring his funds were accepted. Tapping in the number for the bite-sized cookies, he watched as the spring-like arm extended and dropped the first bag. Sliding over to the other vending machine, he flashed his badge again. It was accepted and he selected a bottle of plain water, which was lowered by the mechanical arm it was resting on into a holder. The cap for the bottle-sized holter opened, Frost reached in, and took his drink. Sliding the bag of cookies into one pocket and the water bottle in the other, he looked up and down the hall again. Still, there was no one.

He began walking towards the end again. The walls, floor tiling, and ceiling were the same drab, steele gray color. As Frost continued walking, he felt strangely confined and the end of the hall seemed to grow farther away. By the time he actually reached the end, his pace had quickened.

He made his way down the stairwell; the barracks was nearly ten stories tall. Going around and around the well, he was practically dizzy by the end. It almost made him laugh. Passing the security officer and clerk who manned the front desk, who he politely saluted as he walked by, he went through the automatic door and into the evening air.

The rain finally stopped, but the wet smell hung in the air. To say the scent of fallen rainwater was sweet or bitter was impossible. Rain possessed a unique smell that could not compare to any other, much like snow or the very cold itself.

Filling his lungs with it revitalized him and Frost could not help but smile. The courtyard was alive with activity; supply ships came down from orbit, unloaded, and ascended once more, long, rumbling convoys trickling through the gate, and the steady march of personnel assisting with repairs, supplies, or direction. There was a lot of shouting combined with the forklift horns, signal whistles, grinding treads, growling engines, and crunch of tires on the pavement.

White, green, red, and yellow lights glowed all over the compound and the surrounding buildings. The courtyard glistened with moisture and puddles, reflecting the array of lights. It was as if the darkness of the pavement was made all the more deeper and the entirety of the grounds emitted a singular glowing effect.

It was very crisp outside. Frost could see the hot, white clouds in front of every face as they toiled. Steam rose from the engines of Warthogs. Sparks flashed from the welding tools over in the motor pool. Sentries smoked while they patrolled the grounds; each time they exhaled, the gentle wind caught and rolled the cloud of smoke.

Waiting for a break in the traffic, he darted across the courtyard and began making his way to the training yard. It was one of the few areas in the entire Port military personnel could move about freely without asking for an officer's permission. Going outside the wire always required clearance from a company commander. But in a separate, smaller compound adjacent to the shooting range was a track for PT and for games between the branches. It was shaped like a giant oval and was large enough that three laps around it constituted a mile. In the center quad was a patch of lush, green grass that the troops liked to sit in as they cooled off.

Flashing his badge to the guard at the checkpoint, who waved him through, he walked out onto the track. At each corner there was a large industrial light fixture, the kind one would find at a sports stadium. All were off so the only light came from the lamp posts arrayed around the track. Their warm glow illuminated parts of the wet grass which was glistening.

Frost was about to start walking when he looked over at the bleachers. Sitting on the bottom row was Steele. The sniper was sitting with his shoulders hunched and his head hung low. His thick blonde hair swept back and forth across his forehead with the wind. A characteristic cigarette hung loosely from his lips. Surprisingly, he was still wearing his filthy fatigues from a few days ago.

Frost slowly made his way over to him and smiled. "How's it going, you long range sniper, you."

Steele looked up slowly. His face drooped with fatigue and his eyes were dull and depressive.

"Bruv," he greeted. Frost suddenly grew apprehensive. Clearing his throat, he shrugged a little.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Free country."

"We're not in any country."

"Just sit down."

Frost smirked, feeling a little better. He sat down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the bag of cookies and opened it. An artificial sweet smell rose from within. Even Steele could smell it. Leaning over, he peeked into the bag. "Those smell fake as shit, bruv."

"You want some?"

"Sure, hit me."

Frost chuckled as he poured a few into Steele's open palm. The tiny beige cookies were vanilla flavored; the white frosting in the center was also vanilla. The sniper winked and tossed the bunch of them in his mouth. After he gulped it down, he shook his head and took a puff on his head. "Gross as fuck."

"I'm surprised you can taste anything with that," Frost said, pointing to the cigarette then making a smoking gesture with his index and middle fingers. He popped a few of the cookies into his mouth. "They're not so bad."

Taking the water bottle out, he unscrewed the cap and took a swig. He held it over to Steele who took a modest sip. "Have you eaten anything?" Frost asked him.

"Don't think I can stomach anything."

"Did they treat you alright? They didn't starve you or anything?"

"Roughed me up a couple of times, but I planned for that."

"For the smokes?"

"For the smokes."

Steele grinned proudly as he sucked on the cigarette. "Well worth the lumps."

For a little while, the pair sat together silently. They dipped their hands into the bag and ate a few cookies each. Every so often, they took turns drinking from the bottle of water. Occasionally, Steele handed Frost his cigarette and the squad leader took a puff. Wind whistled through the compound, tousling their hair and flapping their clothes.

"Do you remember how Campo died?" Steele asked. Frost turned to face him quickly, shocked.

"What's got you thinking about that?"

* * *

Steele slid behind a broken embankment next to a tree on the mountainside. Raising his sniper rifle and deploying the bipod, he trained the scope upwards. Innies were pouring down the slope towards their permission.

"We need fire support right fucking now!" he yelled. Frost crouched down behind the tree, leaned out, and began peppering the advancing enemies with his MA5B.

"Its too close!" he shouted. He turned. "We need some fucking bodies up here!"

Steele expended all four rounds in the magazine. Each one struck a charging Innie center mass, tearing apart their feeble body armor and blowing open their chests. As they fell, he could see their bloody rib cages and lungs. Other Marines came running up and crouched or went prone in a staggered line, using the tree and embankment as an anchor. Platoon commanders and squad leaders barked orders, established fields of fire, and pointed out targets. RTO's set up their radio sets and began calling for reinforcements. Below, Marines continued to struggle up the mountain. The terrain was craggy, fraught with fallen timbers, boulders, patches of shallow gravel, thorn bushes, brush, fallen leaves, and tufts of grass. Some areas were previously blasted by Kodiak artillery; there were splintered tree trunks and stumps, black patches of earth, burning bushes and underbrush, and a number craters that it looked like a moonscape.

Drifting in and out of the craters, leaping over destroyed trees, and dashing through fire, the rebels came on. Even as the line of Marines opened fire, cutting down the first two ranks of advancing Innies, they kept charging.

They were closing in, screaming at the top of their lungs, and the Marines hollered back. As the moon began to rise, Steele could see their bayonets gleaming in the pale light.

Steele squeezed the trigger and found himself looking into the eyes of a dead man. The eyes nearly rolled back into the sockets and the enemy's tongue lolled out. Just as he took that in, he felt someone push him to the side. Rolling over, he saw Frost stand up, jam the barrel of his MA5B into the belly of a running Innie, and squeezed the trigger. A burst of automatic fire tore through his abdomen and he fell over. Another Innie tackled Frost; they entered a wrestling match as they rolled down the hill.

Drawing his sidearm, Steele aimed to help. But somebody kicked it out of hand. Turning, he came face to face with the barrel of an outdated carbine. An instant later, an olive drab form tackled the Innie holding the gun. Not wasting a moment, Steele scrambling for the pistol, which was about a foot to his left. Snatching it, he ran over to the grappling Marine and rebel. Pulling the Marine off, he stuck the barrel under the Innie's chin and fired. The M6C round made a flesh _thump _sound as it flew through the man's skull.

The Marine who rescued him was Ocampo. Steele grabbed him by the webbing, handed him Frost's MA5B, and ordered him to hold the position. He turned around to go get Frost, but instead he saw the corporal already running back up. In his left hand he held his blood-covered KA-BAR knife and in the right he carried his M6C. Running up to the tree trunk, he aimed and fired into a crowd of Innies. One by one, they fell over, wounded and dead. Steele crouched and began firing. When he reloaded, he looked down the line and saw the line was in confusion. Rebels were advancing through the Marines and running down the slope. Many were mobbing the Marines, who fought off the undisciplined, untrained rebels with their KA-BAR knives, entrenchment tools, and bare fists. Throats were slit, eyes gouged out or pushed in, ears ripped off, and bellies were opened. Soon, there was blood everywhere. A Marine would catch a rebel, kill him in hand-to-hand combat, pick his rifle back up, and continue firing.

"Loading!"

"Changing mags!"

"Don't turn your back on these fuckers!"

"Hold your position!"

"Kill'em all, don't let'em pass!"

"C'mon, you fuckers!"

There was so much screaming and shooting Steele could not even hear his own thoughts. He was not even sure he was thinking. All of his motions, all of his actions, seemed automatic, as if guided by a mind not his own. There were so many Innies rushing towards him all he had to do was point and shoot. In seconds, he emptied a magazine in his M6C, slammed a fresh mag in, and began firing again.

Steele kept on shooting, shooting, and shooting until he didn't see any more Innies. It became deathly quiet throughout the wooded mountainside. All he could hear was the panting of the other Marines around him.

Resting his forehead on the ground for a moment, he reached over and patted Ocampo on the back of his helmet.

"Thanks, bruv," he wheezed. "Fuckin' hell, that was something." He looked over at Frost, who was still aiming his pistol down range.

"Fuckin'-A, we lit'em up," Frost said. He looked at Steele and grinned. "Holy shit, bro, we fucking _chewed'em _up."

"Yeah, very fuckin' exciting," Steele said, wiping his face. "Fuck me, I almost shat myself back there." He looked himself over, and then noticed his left arm was soaked in blood. "Am I hit? Lads, I think I'm hit."

He removed his shoulder pauldron. There was a bullet hole in his bicep; dark red blood seeped out of both the exit and entry wound. "Yeah, lads, I'm hit."

"Corpsman up!" Frost shouted. He then pointed at Steele's arm. "Ocampo, plug that wound."

Ocampo pulled out his only first aid kid, which contained a host of medical supplies. The most important item within the soft tactical case was the canister of biofoam. First, he took out an antiseptic pad and wiped down both wounds. Steele hissed from the stinging pain. Then, Ocampo reached for the biofoam canister. Taking off the cap, he carefully placed the mouth of the nozzle on the wound, then squeezed the trigger. Steele gritted his teeth as the biofoam filled the wound. The injection quickly materialized and held, staunching the bleeding. Wiping the excess from both wounds with a sanitary cloth, Ocampo then wrapped the wound in a few layers of white bandages. By the time Wright showed up, the wound was patched. He still inspected it.

"Nice work, looks good," Wright said to the young Marin, then turned to the sniper. "Try to keep it clean, check on it every hour, and change the bandages. If it needs more biofoam, hit it again, but make sure it's clean."

"Yes, mother dearest," Steele said.

"Want something for the pain?"

"Give it to someone who needs it."

"Tell me that when the adrenaline wears off, tough guy," Wright said before another call for a corpsman brought him down the line. As they watched him go, Lieutenant Conroy showed up with his command element. He crouched beside them.

"Listen up," the officer began, "Skipper wants us to hold here for the night. We're going to deploy along this line. First platoon's on our left flank, Third's on the left, we're here in the center. Private Ocampo, we're running low on ammo. It's coming, but the Skipper needs to know who has what and what they need. Make your way up and down the line and see what they need. Distribute what you can. Get moving."

"Yes, sir!" Ocampo said. He turned and winked at Steele and Frost.

Night fell and the moon was blotted out by a cloud system. Steele was trying to view the woods through his scope, but the night vision feature wasn't engaging.

"Maybe it got damaged when you dropped the rifle," Frost whispered, "or it got grazed by a bullet."

"Yeah, but I'm fucked without it if they try to make a push."

Steele continued to fiddle with the scope when they heard a twig snap in front of them.

"Rebels!"

"They're coming!"

"Open fire!"

The line lit up with muzzle flashes. Steele didn't aime, he just squeezed the trigger and sent all four rounds down range. The combined glare from so many automatic weapons was blinding; it was like seeing a thousand lightning strikes fall around him within milliseconds of one another. Ejecting the empty magazine and sliding a fresh one in, he continued to add the high-powered rounds to the volume of fire. Eventually, an order for 'crease fire,' rang out.

Immediately, the gunfire stopped. It was quiet again. Steele listened for anything, but couldn't hear anything.

He slid back down the embankment with Frost. The latter was still peering over the edge for a while.

A faint moaning filled the air. At first, they could barely hear it. But then it came again, and again, and again. Pained, fatigued, sorrowful, the moans rose and fell, rose and fell. Steele could tell it was out in front of him and knew it was one of the rebels. He was sure of it; they attempted an ambush, retreated, and left one of their wounded men behind.

"Help..." came the faint, garbled voice. He sounded like there was blood in his mouth "...please, help me."

He kept moaning after he uttered those words. Every so often, he would say, 'please,' or 'help.'

Steele listened for a time, gazing over the edge of the embankment. He tried to spot the wounded rebel in the darkness, but couldn't make him out. So he sat back down and listened to the pitiful moaning.

"Somebody should go out there and put that fucker out of his misery," Frost muttered.

"Hold your position," Lieutenant Conroy said, remaining crouched several meters away from their position, "it's not safe to go out there. It could be a trap and there could be more laying nearby."

So the Marines held their ground and listened to the wails all night. Steele couldn't sleep and kept his rifle pointed forward. As the hours dragged by, the wounded man was still moaning. His voice grew weaker, but he just would not die.

"Mama...mama..." the voice moaned. "...mommy..."

"Fucking die already," Steele said through gritted teeth. "Just fucking die so we can get some sleep."

"Help me, please, someone help me...mommy help me..."

"Shut the fuck up," Steele muttered, resting his forehead against the butt of his rifle.

"Someone help me, please..."

"Fucking die already. I want to sleep."

About an hour before morning, the moaning finally stopped. When the sun rose, the Marines ventured cautiously in front of them. Traversing piles and layers of dead Innies, they came about thirty or so yards forward. In a patch of bare ground where some broken branches had fallen, they found Ocampo's body. His chest and stomach were riddled by bullets and there was dried blood all over his mouth. In one of his hand was his rifle and in the other was the strap of a bandoleer packed with MA5B magazines.

Steele stood over the corpse with Frost, Teo, and the rest of the squad.

"I didn't recognize his voice," Frost murmured.

"He must have gotten lost, or just didn't know how far in front of the lines he was," Steele said. "I can't believe that I-"

"Don't start with it," Teo said, giving him a light shove in the shoulder. He walked out in front of the men. "None of this is on you. Ocampo did this to himself. Take this as a fucking lesson: use your nav-equipment, and if you're lost, sit tight until morning. That's basic training for you and Ocampo should have known better."

"Jesus Christ, T," Steele said, pointing at the body, "that was our _friend_ and he died mewling his last a few yards away from us."

"Ocampo's dead. You all need to get your heads screwed on. I need you to stay aggressive because we're pushing up this mountain and it's gonna be a fucking meat grinder."

"Can you imagine what the notice is gonna say? Families all over the Colonies are getting notifications saying their son or daughter died heroically in defense of humanity. On his, it'll say, 'killed by friendly fire because his pals were fucking jumpy shits.' So his family-"

"I don't give a damn what the notice says. If it makes you feel that much better, I'll write them a letter and tell them that it was quick. Happy?" Teo didn't wait for an answer. "Round up your shit and let's go. Somebody get his fucking tags."

* * *

Steele flicked the cigarette away.

"That stuck with me for a while. The part that bothered me the most was that letter Teo sent to his mother. Nothing but lies, man. It felt wrong to be a part of that. But it all just fell into place with the rest of the horrible shit we've seen."

Frost crumpled up the empty bag and stuffed it into his pocket.

"What made you think of that?"

"Carris. She's super fucking pissed at me," Steele answered. Frost looked surprised and leaned over.

"Why?"

"The fuck do you mean why?" Steele snapped, taking the cigarette from his mouth. "You hosed a bunch of unarmed prisoners and she covered for us. She lied to them, man, you know that don't you? You can't be that thick."

"Of course, I know she lied!" Frost hissed. "I didn't think she would, I didn't think it would happen. How did she know?"

Steele found himself hesitant to tell his best friend how Carris heard. For the first time, he was not sure how Frost would handle that information. Part of him worried it would worsen whatever mental state he was already in. But he could not even peg where he was mentally; he seemed totally unconcerned with what happened as he casually drank and ate cookies, of all things.

"Just a guess, I reckon. You know her, sharp as a whip."

"One hell of a coincidence, then."

"The lie's eating her up. She went on a whole thing about being a soldier, honor, creed, all that shit."

"I better talk to her."

"Bad idea, mate. If she's pissed at me, she's ready to kill you. Carris thinks you're unstable, ready to go nuts at the drop of a pin. Hell, she was even saying I ought to be in charge. But she took the words right out of my mouth." He chuckled, only to cover up how harmful it was, even if it was true. "Chain smoking...Christ, mate, I never thought I'd hear her get mad at me over that."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. It's just got me tore up, is all. That we put her in that position." Frost didn't say anything, so Steele looked up. His friend's gray eyes were peering off into nothingness, lost and murky like a cloud. "Don't you?"

"Yeah, of course I do." Frost chewed his bottom lip. "Do you agree with her? Do you think I'm unstable?"

Steele looked away.

"You should be asking yourself that question, bruv."

"You do think so."

"I didn't fucking say that."

"But you think so, don't you?"

"Calm down, Nate."

"I am calm."

"Then why're you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you wanna fucking tear my throat out," Steele snapped. Frost's eyes were shining, wide, and accusatory. With a blink, they seemed to calm and Frost withdrew somewhat. He clasped and wrung his hands together, nervously.

Sighing, Steele looked forward again. "I told her you're just a little troubled. You've always had a tough time letting go of the past."

"Do you actually believe that?" Frost asked coldly. "Or were you just covering for me again?"

"I meant it. Do you remember what happened on the _Best of the Best_?"

Frost nodded. Steele remembered the traitor he beat and cut up for kidnapping the female crew member. Part of it was his own desire to punish the bastard for what he did and what he was planning to do. But he knew it would be different if Frost got a hold of him. The past he was trying to put behind him would have reared its ugly head and reduced their squad leader down to the raving, bloodthirsty lunatic who stalked the mountainside on Skopje. That was not the kind of leader they needed because all he saw was red, not the troopers he was supposed to guide. If anything, he did it for himself and the rest of the squad. But Steele knew it was because he just didn't want to see that part of Frost come back.

Even back on Skopje, when everyone was shooting anyone who looked like they knew how to handle a firearm, Steele was terrified of Frost. Most of the Marines were; fear and respect were often intertwined in the Marines. Sometimes, he would just leave in the middle of the night. When he came back a few hours later or sometimes in the morning, his sleeves and armor would be covered in blood. Nobody asked any questions about who he killed or how many he killed.

Then he would come sit beside Steele as if nothing happened. It was bizarre to be close friends with the most dangerous Marine in the entire Marine Expeditionary Unit. Almost everyone else saw him as just that and worshiped him. Steele was able to look past it, or at least tried, and was able to find the polite, young man he befriended on that first day of basic training.

Rubbing his eyes, Steele looked at him. "Carris is right. You need to _focus. _The past is the past, and we can't change it. I know what happened to the Army troopers was terrible, I was there, I saw it too. But we can't live the rest of our lives in the context of Skopje. Most of the Marines have made their peace and moved on. But you, everything you do, it's because of Skopje. It's time to move on."

"Are you afraid that I'm going to get you killed?"

"I'm afraid of losing my best friend," Steele responded immediately. "It's like your own memories, your own thoughts, whatever's going on inside your head, is consuming you."

"Maybe it is," Frost murmured. "I want to shake it."

"You have to," Steele said, grasping his shoulder. "You can't keep using Skopje as an excuse. You keep doing things you think are right, then you just end up feeling guilty. It's a cycle, brother, and you're just gonna keep doing circles if you don't break it."

For a while, Frost didn't say anything. His expression was blank and unreadable. Slowly Steele patted his shoulder then dropped his hand. Eventually, his friend looked at him from the corner of his eye.

"I'll do my best."

Steele nodded. He pulled the packet of cigarettes from his fatigue jacket's pocket, tapped another one out, pressed to his lips, and lit it with a match. After taking a few long drags, he exhaled a large, gray cloud that was swept away by the wind.

Frost stood up. "Do you wanna round up the rowdy boys and Jasmine, see if we can squeeze into the mess hall and grab a bite to eat?"

Steele looked up at him sharply. He got onto his feet and stepped close to him.

"Hey, I mean it. You've got to get out of this because you're gonna be lost and people are gonna die. Alright? I don't want to hear, 'okay,' and 'yeah,' you need to make it fucking clear to me that you understand what we've just talked about."

"I understand. I heard you, Lou, I heard you. I'm going to take care of it."

"Good," Steele grunted and took another puff on the cigarette. "One more thing, though. About the Doc."

Immediately, Frost frowned. His forehead wrinkled, his brow furrowed, and his lips pursed. Steele knew he would become defensive; just like anyone could not mess with his squad, nobody could say anything about the good doctor. But, the sniper was undeterred. "I know you got a mix of feelings in your skull right now. Some of'em might tell you to speak to the Doc about what happened."

Steele paused for effect and let the smoke leak from his mouth and nose. "Do you love her?"

Frost's brow rose, his mouth opened a little in surprise, and his gray-blue eyes widened. For a moment, his arms made a half-shrug motion, he stammered without speaking, and he broke his gaze from Steele's.

Frustrated, he rolled his eyes. "Fine, I'll simplify the question: do you want to keep _fucking _her?"

There it was, that angry, defensive expression once again. Frost stepped closer, so close they were nearly nose to nose. Steele put a hand on his chest and stepped back. "Don't tell her anything or it'll be over."

"You're telling me to lie to her?"

"Did you plan on telling her?"

"Not right now, but maybe, some time down the line-"

"Don't. I bet she was riding you hard, her fingers in your fucking hair, telling you what a good man you are and how proud she is. Doc's no dummy; she gets an idea of how deep this bullshit it, you two are through. So keep your mouth shut if you don't want to lose her."

* * *

**Word Count: **6,118

**Author's Note: **Another week, another chapter, beginning with Frost and ending with me. Hi folks, thanks for sticking with the story. The tone of this chapter is a little wonky, to be honest; at the same time, the situation our characters are in is beyond wonky, so I suppose it fits the turbulent nature of their emotional states. On another note, I'm really digging these 6,000-6,999 word chapters; it really helps to have a steady update schedule, helps me stay productive, and it's a great challenge.

On another-other note, if any of you have been waiting for a _Marsh Silas: Inquisitor _chapter, the story is about to be reorganized. The current 7 chapters will be divided into 14, plus two more new chapters which will bring the total count to 16. There are some minor changes to the original chapters too, but the core aspects will be preserved. I plan to commit this update by the end of this week or the next. It'd mean a lot to me and really help me out if you'd check it out.

**Comment Responses: **

**TheCarlosInferno: **Don't worry. No spoilers, but I meant what I said way back when, so don't worry.

**TheShadeOps: **It suuuuuuure is! Gotta put on my 'Next time on Batman,' voice here. [clears throat] Will the team manage to stick together? Will Frost overcome his innate desire to kill? And will the heck is Operation: EXALT going to begin? Find out next time on: I'm Alone: Exalt!

**CommissarBS: **Oh, I didn't feel attacked in the slightest! I apologize if that's the tone I gave off. The point you raised is perfectly valid; I doubt most readers on this site find military legal maneuvering all that interesting and realism/lore friendliness is something I do my best to take seriously as long as it doesn't get in the way of storytelling. I just wanted to explain my reasoning behind it, that's all. In terms of the actual prosecution or courtroom dynamic in this, there really is none. I thought about having a more formal trial but that would probably extend this segment by another ten chapters, and I wanted to emphasize the bureaucratic nature of the UNSC. While I've made it a point to study war crimes/crimes against humanity, I've never really delved into legal proceedings regarding those crimes, so you'll find I don't actually have the information to form an opinion on contemporary military law.

And with that, you raise a very valid point that hits the nail on the head for the way trauma has affected those in this story. For some characters, like Vivian, the trauma was direct; she watched her friends die in front of her. For others, like Frost, his trauma stems from seeing malicious acts of barbaric crimes and his own guilt regarding his inability to stop them. Even then, the trauma can spread from character to character and take deep roots inside them, as you said.

Steele really does steal the show a lot. He's a fun character to write; he's crass, surly, aloof, and uncaring about most things and most people. Yet, when he rises to the occasion he's quick, capable, and actually to some extent, compassionate. However, his aforementioned traits mean he's willing to cover things up or do some bad things on behalf of good reasons. He's a dynamic character to work with.

**MightBeGone: **Yes, your heart is broken. But somewhere, someway, deep inside your very, most intimate essence of a person, you know, as well as I know, that you _secretly like it when I break your heart and you wouldn't be reading if you didn't want it to be broken and-_

Huh, got away from myself for a moment. [clears throat] This is actually very gratifying for me because I originally wanted a lot of characters to be more complex and darker, but was nervous way back when they wouldn't stick with many readers. Now, I finally get to add the ambiguity I always wanted. Very exciting.

But I am aware of what writing can do and that's why I'll say this: relationships are fluid and can change back and forth, and I take character direction very seriously. It's why you don't see a lot of the characters dying in this story; in the previous, we had 1 major death, and even then, Sanchez was a tertiary character at most. Character death should be spread out and meaningful for those around them, which is why I won't be going G.R.R. Martin on them, because death will lose its impact eventually.


	11. Chapter 11: Remember the Uniform

Chapter 11: Remember the Uniform

* * *

It felt like it was happening all over again. As far away and faded those memories were, Carris was sure they were about to repeat themselves. Even though the people and circumstances changed, she knew herself. Once again, just as she was beginning to find a home, it was going to fall apart for her.

Petty Officer First Class Damien Losa's death was a mistake. Nobody expected it to happen; even Carris was shocked by her own actions. Afterwards, she felt like a stranger among her fellow Spartans. Nobody changed the way they treated her. Yes, a few shared words of sympathy and assured her it was not her fault. Mendez, the rugged instructor whom they all respected, had his words with her as well. He did not chew her out although she wished he did. In some ways, getting screamed at and punished would have been easier to deal with. Soldiers did not get away with acts which violated the rules and regulations. Punishment was to be as severe as possible; time spent in the stockade, demotions, pay suspension, dishonorable discharge, or even death were all reprisals a soldier could expect.

Accident or not, there should have been a punishment. She was ready for it; she wanted it. Instead, everyone treated her as if she was the wronged party. Nobody ostracized her for it, yet their kind attitudes and camaraderie made her feel all the more distant. A week afterwards, none of the other Spartans or the instructors were acting like it never happened. For a while, she felt if she was in some, twisted dream in which only her memory survived the passage of time. Every fiber of her being wanted to shake everyone and screamed at them. 'Losa is dead!' she wanted to yell at them, 'Losa is dead and I killed him! Don't you care!? Don't you hate me!?'

It took more energy to move on than it did to run the courses each day. Beyond the grueling exercises, the long classroom lectures, and the dangerous hinterland of Reach the instructors dropped them in, that was what drained her the most. It ate her from the inside.

Carris stopped jogging. It was pitch black outside save for the industrial lamp configuration on the side of the road. She leaned against it with her shoulder. Her exhaustion was not from running for hours and hours until it was nearly curfew. Her heart maintained a steady beat, her feet barely burned, and her legs were hardly sore. Staying out any longer though would see her arrested by the security guards around the base for being on base grounds after lights out. But she did not want to return to the barracks. Being around them seemed utterly terrifying. Sleep was out of the question; alone in her quarters, trapped with her thoughts? No, she would rather go to a cell. At least some security guards would be outside the door.

Even after doing numerous laps around the entire base, Carris did not feel winded. Her heart maintained a steady beat, her feet were barely burning, and her limbs were hardly sore. Staying out any longer, however, was not wise. Under the dull orange light, illuminating the raindrops that fell on her shoulders, she wiped her forehead and reluctantly trudged towards the barracks. With each step, she grew sicker.

The lie. It sat inside her, right in her core like a rotten piece of food roiling in her stomach. It was burning, sickening; she wanted to vomit it out, to clear her body of it. But no urge came. Could she tear it out? Claw through her abdomen with her fingernails, prying her guts open until she found whatever foul object represented the dirty deceit. Out, she wanted it out, out and away from her forever. Far away, forgotten, a thing of the past, never to disturb her thoughts or dreams.

When would it leave? How could peace be made? Looking at herself in the mirror seemed an impossibility. Did she even deserve to wear the fatigues she was dressed in or to carry the personal sidearm she'd know for nearly two decades? If she removed her uniform, from her the dog tags clinking around her neck to the black boots on her feet, would she be cleared of any wrongdoing? Perhaps, if she went in front of another mission review board, an answer would be found. Yes, yes, put her fate and her future in the hands of someone else. After all, she was a Spartan; she did not choose to become a soldier, she was chosen. For many years, her life was not her own. If every human being in the galaxy had a path laid out in front of them, her's was constructed from the martial wisdom of Chief Petty Officer Mendez and the shrewd, cruel, brilliance of Doctor Catherine Halsy.

Did that make her a slave? Slaves possessed no future, no past, and no agency in their lives. Had she acted out any choices based on her own will, her own wishes, ever? When the Human-Covenant War began, she did. As the Spartans were being divided into teams and were assigned to different sectors throughout the Colonies, she requested solo operations. In the turmoil of those early war years, NAVSPECWAR was ready to send the super soldiers anywhere. It didn't matter what unit they fought with or if they fought on their own; just as long as they were _out_ fighting the enemy, that was good enough for them. Waiting a few more years would have most likely seen her request denied and she would be slated with some of the other Spartans.

They were family and leaving them was one of the most difficult decisions she ever made. But Carris was not able to look them in the eye anymore. She loved them, respected them, would fight for them and if need be, die for them. Even now, years after their parting, she would lay down her life for them. Facing them, though, she could not fathom it. Facing the terrified awe of normal soldiers and facing their judgemental ostracization was far more preferable than the brotherhood she would find among her fellow Spartans.

But these Marines, these people, they changed everything. She was not a machine nor a hero to them. To them, she was Carris, and sometimes not even that; they called her, 'C,' and every time they did, it made her smile. Their eyes went by the armor's mystique and saw the woman beneath. In the morning, they clapped her on the back, flashed a smile, and slid her a mug of coffee. Whoever was cooking asked how she wanted her eggs and if she wanted them with cheese and toast. Over food and drink, they swapped tales and dirty jokes, and often laughed at a whole lot of nothing. She heard of people growing upset over trivial, inconsequential matters, but to see some Marines lose their minds laughing over something miniscule and, objectively, unfunny, heartened her like never before.

She was no slave among them; she was just another soldier and more than that, another person. Carris made her choice to stay with them even when her brothers and sisters were ready to take her back in. As close as they were, as willing as they were to die for one another, it was different with the squad. Yes, she made her choice to stay and to protect them from anything within or without.

Now, her choices brought her here. Walking in a cold drizzle, black hair matted, goosebumps on her arm, containing a lie.

A Warthog horn honked. Carris looked up and stopped as the vehicle came screeching to a halt less than a foot away. The high beams nearly blinded her and she had to raise a hand.

"Get off the fucking road!" the driver yelled. "The fuck do you think you're doing, moron?"

"Sorry," Carris said, although she doubted the driver heard it over the rumbling engine. She stepped aside as the driver leaned out. She noticed her was an ensign with the Navy and his troop-carrier variant Warthog was stuffed with supply crates instead of people.

Glaring at her, he took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it onto the road. "Get back to your quarters Petty Officer, before one of those fucking jarheads comes by and opens your skull with a baton."

Carris blinked at him.

"The Marines would not do something like that, sir."

"Yeah, sure they wouldn't," the ensign scoffed. "Watch your ass. If they're anything like Jack the Ripper, they won't care what uniform you're wearing. One day, those leathernecks are going to go fucking feral."

He took his foot off the brake, pressed the gas pedal down, and drove off into a deeper recess of the base.

Carris watched the red tail lights disappear. Only then did she resume walking. After the encounter, she felt flat, blank, and stunted. Fatigue finally crept up behind her and sank its claws into her. She suddenly felt so unbelievably tired, so tired her mind did not have the energy to keep racing.

Eventually, she ended up at her barracks and went through the door. The lobby was a large square shaped room with a door on each side and two more on the wall opposite from the entrance. One led to another corridor leading to different levels of the barracks with the one on the right led to an office area. Clerks, orderlies, officers, technicians, and other logistical personnel assigned to the building worked within. A checkpoint desk was in front of the office door; a clerk and a guard were working side by side. The former was young and pretty, with short blonde hair tied back in a bun and bright green eyes. As for the latter, he was a gruff old line trooper with two robotic arm prosthetics. While the clerk kept typing on their terminal keyboard, the Marine security guard raised his head.

Carris flashed her identification badge as she walked by. The Marine security guard nodded as he sat back down.

Trudging up the stairs, the Spartan listened to her footsteps echo up and down the stairwell. Going around and around, she felt like she was going down rather than up. Undoubtedly, her exhaustion was setting deeper within. She would grab something to drink and eat from their common room, indulge for a few minutes, and then go straight to bed.

Upon opening the door to the common room, she halted immediately. Sitting among the chairs and tables was the entire squad, save for its two commanders. Grant, Moser, Langley, Bishop, Maddox, and Knight all looked up at the same time.

"Carris!" they all shouted. A great whirlwind of digital camouflage fatigues barreled towards her. In a few moments, she was engulfed by the squad. Langley and Gran were on either side of her and embracing her very tightly. Moser was slightly behind her, squeezing her shoulder. Bishop was on the other, patting her affectionately on the back. Maddox took one of her hands and locked their grip, shaking her fist slightly. Knight stood by, but smiled affably. Everyone was laughing, smiling, and bombarding her with questions.

For the briefest of moments, Carris stood stock-still. In that moment, she felt as though she was going to explode. A drowning feeling began to grow in her chest. Part of her wanted to scream, another part of her wanted to run away. They jostled her, clapped her shoulders and back, ruffled her wet hair, and she wanted to throw them off.

But the moment passed. Her lips twitched into a smile. She put an arm around Grant and hugged him back. When Maddox let go of her hand, she hugged Langley too. Like a wave, happiness washed over her. She laughed at their crazy attitudes and joyous expressions. There was definitely no choice here; it was impossible not to smile with them. It felt like years since she saw any of them.

During the bustle, they brought her over to the table and sat her down. Everyone crowded in. Someone put a cup of freshly brewed coffee in front of her and she took a long sip. Then, a plate with some buttered toast was put in front of her. Carris devoured both slices and asked for more. A few minutes later, two fresh pieces of toast with warm better belted on one side were handed to her. Coffee and a few slices of buttered toast; she never tasted anything better in her entire life.

"Where have you been Carris?" Knight asked in the worried, mildly irritated tone a concerned father would use. Although, he was still smiling broadly.

"Just getting some I air, I bet. I can imagine you'd want to get outside after being locked in your own room," Langley said, patting the top of Carris's hand. "I'm so glad the charges were dropped. We all knew it was a whole lot of bogus."

Carris just nodded and struggled to maintain her smile.

"We haven't seen Frost at all," Bishop added.

"He's probably shacked up with the Doc," Maddox said, putting a lit cigarette to his lips. "I don't blame him, anyways. We're old news, after all; he's been starting at most of our faces for the better part of what, ten or so years now? Give or take?"

"But we did see Steele. He was looking for you. Did he catch up with you?"

"Yes, he did," Carris answered flatly.

Everybody just took the answer in stride except for Grant. In a glance, she caught his subtly confused expression. His brow was furrowed in an inquisitive fashion and his lips were slightly parted in surprise. But as the others began to talk, he relaxed his features and began to take part in it too.

Carris was eating her fifth and sixth slice of buttered toast when everyone cheered again. Looking up as they rushed to their feet, they ran into someone else coming through the door. For a moment, she thought it was going to be Steele. Instead, Gunnery Sergeant Frost walked in. He shook hands, returned embraces, and smiled happily. Like her, he was carried on the surf of the squad and seated at the table. He sat down across from her. One of their squad mates put a cup of coffee in it. Frost filled it with sugar and creamer before taking a long sip. He sighed contentedly.

All Carris did was stare. She suddenly lost her appetite. Very cooly, she sat back and folded her hands on the table. Rage did not rise within her chest, nor was there a pit in her stomach. A strange neutrality enveloped her spirit and Carris felt much calmer than she ever did in her entire life.

Was it the lie? Being privy to something no one else or very few others were was just as liberating as it was claustrophobic. As much as she wanted to belt out the truth, there was a strange satisfaction of knowing when no one else did. Even seeing the way the others congratulated him for clearing the charges and for getting out of the stockade did not bother her. She thought it would have been infuriating to watch them praise a murderer. Would they feel the same way about it though? Would they betray their own opinions and perspectives of the man they called a brother and their squad leader to side with her? Would they see it as murder or would they line up with whatever philosphy Frost operated by?

Save Nora Langley, they were all on Skopje. Legends were simply that, legends. But Frost's actions indicated that there was truth behind them after all. Troubled? Steele said he was troubled. Ridiculous! Yes, people who were troubled could make mistakes or hurt others when they didn't mean to? But murder? Those without morals, without sanity, those were the ones who committed murder. Soldiers like her were killers indeed, but not murderers. There was a difference between killing in the defense of others and taking the lives of the defenseless. It was not a matter of how innocent or how precious lives were; those smugglers were all guilty criminals. All would have seen lengthy jail time for smuggling, and if it was confirmed they were supplying Insurrectionist, they would have gotten life sentences or the death penalty for treason. But there was no justifying their killing, based on what they would and wouldn't have done.

Frost eventually calmed everyone down. He looked at her and his smile softened. She expected him to say thank you, but there was something in his eyes. A knowing look, one she saw before when he would gaze at the others. For a moment, her own expression grew less stern and she blinked at him, waiting for what he was going to say. Instead, he cleared his throat and turned so he could look at everyone.

"So, just in case you haven't heard, Steele's been demoted. Busted back down to full corporal."

"What a load of shit," Maddox muttered.

"He shouldn't have disobeyed orders," Moser cut in. "I don't agree with it, but I don't think any of us should be surprised he was demoted. Just because there's a war on doesn't mean the rules don't matter. They do."

"Agreed," Carris said, trying to mask a seething tone.

Frost seemed to be the only one who detected her voice. He stood up.

"I'm sure you'll be getting the full details soon enough, but just to give you a heads up, there's going to be a big organizational change coming soon. We're going to be reorganized into Marine Raiders, the whole company. Means things are going to get tight and by the book. As far as I know, Steele is still in command of the squad. But I'm probably going to be assigned somewhere else within the company, whether that's with our platoon or the headquarters element. I can't tell you which. Major Royce is going to be in command. I'll speak with him, see if I can stick with you a bit longer, but don't get your hopes up, okay? Maybe nothing'll come of it and I'm just getting worried over nothing, but we have to be realistic about this. Don't worry, though, even if I'm assigned elsewhere, I'll have freedom of movement on the battlefield and I can roll with you guys. Okay?"

There was a long silence. Carris looked around at the others. It looked though they were informed a relative passed away. Their eyes were wide with shock and their features sagged with disappointment. Frost saw it too and patted Grant on the shoulder. "I'm sorry I have to follow up the good news with that. But that's the way it is, guys. I'm sorry. Remember the uniform you're wearing; you're soldiers. Soldiers follow orders."

"Where's Steele?" Carris asked.

"Chatting up the clerk at the front desk. As usual."

Carris just folded her arms across her chest. Frost nodded at everyone. "Get some sleep, we're going to need it. Starting in two days, we'll be going through some reeducation and training."

While the rest of the squad walked soberly out, Carris was the first one to leave. She maintained a brisk pace. She fetched her grooming kit, brushed her teeth, donned her sleepwear consisting of a black pair of shorts and an olive drab tank top, and went back to her quarters. Despite spending the last few days inside her room, it felt like she'd been away for months.

Just as she sat down on the edge of her bed, she heard a knock on the door. For a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut. If it was Frost, she decided, she was going to let him have it.

Unlocking and opening the door, she was surprised to see Grant and Moser standing side by side. Both had a field-grade sleeping bag under their arms.

"Hey C, we were wondering if you wanted some company tonight," Grant said.

Carris stared at them blankly for a few moments, then smiled.

"Sure."

"Just like old times," Moser said as he and the other rifleman walked in. Both laid their sleeping bags on the floor.

"Are you sure you really want to sleep on the floor?"

Grant turned around, quirked an eyebrow, and smiled confidently.

"C, I've slept on rocks, wet grass, in the snow and in the middle of deserts. I think I can handle a padded sleeping bag on linoleum tile. Besides, beds get overrated after a while."

As the pair tucked into their sleeping bags, Carris looked at the mattress. After a moment, she whisked off the sheets, dropped the mattress on the floor next to Grant's sleeping bag, and draped the blankets over it. Moser and Grant nodded approvingly and grinned. Dropping her pillow at the head of the mattress, she pulled the blankets back, and got on. She pulled the covers over her and rested her arms behind her heads.

Then, she laughed.

"I forgot to hit the lights."

"I got'em!" Moser said, hopping out.

* * *

"What do you mean the 89th MEU is getting a special operations company!? You have the ODSTs to fulfill special ops for this task force. What's the point of having _two _different SF units? And the Raiders were terminated two centuries ago because of a lack of operational duties and capacities. Yeah, I know, we've got the Covvies breathing down our necks. But ODSTs have always been able to handle that role. We don't need Raiders wasting resources and taking up space!"

Captain Vivian Waters rubbed her temple as she raised her coffee mug with the other hand. Major Holst was pacing on the other side of the conference table in her office. He was clad in crisp fatigues and wore a furious expression. One hand was planted on his hip while the other continued to hold his forehead.

Sitting on the couch behind him was Captain De Vos, who was holding a data pad. Although she was dressed immaculately, she seemed thoroughly disinterested in the contents of the meeting.

Beside her was Vice Admiral Travers. His current gray tunic was fresher than the one he arrived in, although his hair and beard remained quite shaggy. He was drinking black coffee too.

"Major, you're talking to me like I'm the one who made the decision to reintroduce the Marine Raiders template back to the UNSC. I assure you that, despite my personal approval of such an act, I did not have a hand in its project renewal. That's a decision far above my station." He took a long, loud slurp of coffee. "And try to remember you're in the military and that I outrank you by five grades; when you address a senior officer of any branch you say, 'sir,' or, 'ma'am,' understood?"

Major Holst turned red in the face.

"Sir," he said, almost meekly. He sat back down. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm just steamed up over this. The ODSTs have served for years as one of the principal special operations units for the entire UNSC military. The last thing I want to see is our branch, and my unit, get marginalized in the coming operations."

"Major, we've only regained a foothold in one sector of Colonial space. We're doubling-back across other systems all throughout the Colonies. The Covvies are advancing and we're on the backfoot across almost every front. You'll have no shortage of operations," Vivian assured him curtly.

When she said this, the major's brow furrowed and he glared at her. De Vos quickly grew uncomfortable.

"With respect, Captain Waters, the duty of reclaiming the Port from the Covenant should have been the ODST's responsibility. We have better equipment, better training, and frankly, our officers and noncoms have seen far more action than either in the 89th. Shifting the Helljumpers and giving an unofficial, platoon-sized unit, without a commissioned officer, is frankly in violation of countless rules and regs in the handbook."

"And yet, the job was completed with only one KIA and several other casualties. And that's from a small-unit, clandestine infiltration with limited support. If you're going to try and write a treatise and how several hundred ODSTs performing a drop directly on the target would have fared better with less casualties, I'm going to need at least two days preparation before I actually read it," Travers sneered.

"Again, with respect, we're in the military, sir," Holst said, his voice lacking any kind of dignified tone. "Our business is to engage the enemy and complete objectives. How many lives are spent doing so is irrelevant."

"Major, we need our soldiers more than the Covenant need theirs," Vivian snapped. "One of the best ways we can engage the enemy during these upcoming operations are in ways that limit exposure to our personnel and ships. The more we save, the more we'll have for the next fight, and the next, and the next. You need to start thinking on the long-term. This isn't about branch relevancy. This is about achieving results with the least possible casualties."

"But ma'am-"

"So, if HIGHCOM says there's going to be a trial period for the Raiders, I'm going to obey their orders. And if I say the ODSTs will coordinate operations with the Raider company, you will obey _my _orders, too. Understood?"

Vivian set her coffee mug down, crossed her legs, and folded her hands in her lap. "If you disagree with the nature of these decisions, you can write a letter to the Secretary of the Navy voicing your dissatisfaction. If need be, I'm sure the Vice Admiral can assign you to a different unit."

She could see the muscles at the back of his jaw line tighten. For a moment, his hands balled into fists and it took him great effort not to bare his clenched teeth. Then, he closed his eyes momentarily and inhaled sharply. The redness drained from his face and his posture relaxed.

De Vos was looking at him. It was not fear in her eyes, but a sort of apprehensive expression. Vivian did not doubt the executive officer was concerned her commander would continue to portray himself as a petulant crybaby. A look of relief washed over her as the Major regained his composure.

"No, ma'am, I understand."

"Good. You're dismissed." Vivian took her mug, drank the remainder of her coffee, and put it back down. Just as Holst and De Vos saluted, she pointed at the latter. "Stay behind for a moment, please."

Captain De Vos exchanged a quick glance with her superior officer. Vivian and Travers returned the Major's salute and he departed. Once the doors slid shut, the remaining ODST looked at them hesitantly.

Vivian stood up and smiled pleasantly. She walked over to her. "At ease, Captain. I just wanted to have a quick word. I appreciate your efforts during the past few days trying to clean up this mess the recon mission turned into."

"Yes, ma'am," was all De Vos said. Vivian nodded and touched her on the shoulder.

"You're a reliable soldier. We're going to be taking on a new instructor to shape the Marine Raiders into a proper SF unit. While we have to pick from a senior candidate, I'd like you to serve in an assistant capacity."

"Thank you, ma'am but...with respect, shouldn't that role go to a more experienced officer."

"Such as Major Holst?"

"Ma'am," De Vos said with a nod.

Vivian nodded her head to the side. Although he was shaping up to be a particularly sharp thorn in her side this morning, there was no denying his excellent war record. His ribbon rack was large and colorful; it was a product of achieving results. As well, considering that the entire task force was in a designated training period, cross-service instruction and joint-training operations would be prevalent across the entire base.

But she smiled and squeezed the Captain's shoulder.

"I think you have a lot to offer the Raiders, Captain De Vos. Their training begins tomorrow when the instructors arrive. Oh-five-hundred hours. Be ready."

"Yes, ma'am!"

Salutes were exchanged and the ODST departed.

Turning around, Vivian noticed Vice Admiral Travers was smiling and shaking his head. When she raised an inquisitive eyebrow, he set his coffee mug down and stood up.

"Should have known you wouldn't do things by the book, Waters."

"Major Holst is by no means a poor officer, but I need someone with a cooler temperament who can impart experience and wisdom, not just thump their chest and scream at the Marines."

"You sure it's not because you want to ruffle Holst's feathers a little more?"

"Quite positive, sir. If I was trying to spite him, I'd find a more creative method," she joked. Travers snickered.

"Well, just be aware of your decisions. There's a lot of friction out there already."

"I'm aware."

"Last thing you need is friction between two of your commanders. The Navy and the Marines slinging mud at each other is too much already."

"We have a whole body of instructors arriving to help with training," Vivian said abruptly, changing the subject. "I've yet to see any background on them."

Travers set his data pad on his thigh and tapped a few keys. After he opened a document he handed it to Vivian.

She went to the window for better lighting as she gazed at the data pad. Immediately, she was impressed. The drill instructors were all veteran soldiers from infantry branches or specific schools all over the UNSC. All of those listed were senior enlisted personnel; most had at least fifteen to twenty years in the service, and nearly ten others had twenty-five to thirty. Those men saw action against Insurrectionists forces as well as the Covenant. Many worked their way up from the lowest ranks of the Marines, fought in elite line units and went on to serve in one of the UNSC's myriad special forces groups.

Gazing at the photographic identification on each profile, she saw they were all scarred, grizzled, and hard looking men. Each one had an impressive, colorful ribbon rack on their dress uniforms.

"Like what you see?" Travers asked, grinning as he took another sip of coffee.

"This will definitely enhance our combat capabilities. All the personnel in the 1st CBG will benefit highly from their experience. Who will be leading the Marine Raiders' training courses?"

"Bottom of the list."

Vivian scrolled further down until she read the name Master Gunnery Sergeant Angus Swing. He was an African-American Marine with a shaved head and clean-shaven face. Unlike the others, his face bore no scars, but it was clearly weathered by war. His eyes were very, very dark yet remained utterly fiery. His lips were tight and his features were robust and strong. Just from the first glance, she thought he never smiled once in his entire life.

Looking at his service record, she was even more impressed. After enlisting at sixteen, he went on to earn a battlefield commission fighting Insurrectionists in the Outer Colonies. From there, he joined the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers; he joined the elite Black Daggers, and later on joined Special Purpose Forces for retraining. He then ended up in Marine Force Reconnaissance, an elite segment of ODSTs. His service record became significantly redacted upon his transfer to ONI Section-Three.

"Thirty-two years in service, seven Navy-E ribbons, five Purple Hearts, three Gold Stars, seven Silver Stars, ten Bronze Stars, twelve commendation medals, thirteen achievement medals, the Legion of Honor...is this man real or is ONI Section Two pulling another prank?"

"I think that's what I said when I met him. No wife, no kids; he's Corps to the core. I was serving as a captain when we pulled some joint ops with Army Spec-War-Group Three. Now, _that _was some real special ops," he chuckled. "For the past three years he's been training ONI SF groups. If anyone can whip them into shape, it's him."

Vivian gave the admiral his data pad back. Travers set it down on the conference table and stood up. "I've also got other instructors coming in to establish temporary NCO schools so infantry personnel who have been promoted out of necessity can complete the necessary development courses. Everything's going to be on fast-track for officers and enlisted personnel in the next few days, but what isn't fast-tracking nowadays?"

Vice Admiral Travers got up and went to the large window behind Vivian's desk. She stood beside him and looked out over the courtyard. Below, between supply drops, convoys, and personnel completing their duties, the Port was still busy.

Some movement caught her. A group of enlisted Navy personnel who just landed planetside were walking past one of the joint-barracks. At the same time, Marine enlisted personnel back from an early morning training operation were returning from the armory. They were all dirty and tired.

As soon as the two groups were abreast of one another, she could sense the hostility. One of the Marines must have said something, because a crewman took a large step out of his clique and pointed at the infantrymen. Whatever he said engraved the leathernecks, as they whirled around and began raising their arms and pointing too. Soon, both groups were face-to-face, screaming, pointing, waving their hands, and shoving each other. Other personnel from their respective branches joined the ensuing shouting match. Just as Vivian was about to radio base security, some Army officers barged in between the two vying groups and separated them. Very quickly, they restored order; an officer escorted each group away from each other.

Vivian grimaced, shook her head, and looked away. "I have to find a way to repair the gap between my troops. If I don't, we won't be as combat effective."

"You'd think the threat of annihilation would bring people together," Travers sighed, still looking out the window.

"I can't, and _won't_, rely on the threat the enemy poses to unify my people. I have to show them the Marines are on our side and not a pack of trigger-happy maniacs."

"Only way you can convince them of that is if you believe it yourself," Travers said sharply over his shoulder.

Vivian chewed her bottom lip. In an instant, she remembered how many times she and Frost confronted one another. No, how many times _she _confronted him. It was rare that he instigated any kind of meeting between them. And how they differed; when she initiated, she came ready with accusations and fire in her belly. What did he do? Cook her dinner based on one of her favorite cultural dishes. The more she thought about their past affairs, the more foolish she thought she was.

"Too many times I pointed at Gunnery Sergeant Frost and called him a murderer. Too many times, I used him as a way to paint the rest of the Marine Corps as a group of bloodlusting psychopaths who make war for the sake of enjoyment rather than necessity. I used to think it's his fault for how angry I am, but I've come to understand it's my own grief. I haven't been able to move on."

She turned around to look at Travers. The vice admiral was already looking at her, a calm, neutral expression on his tanned face. "If there's a problem with the personnel in a unit, it's because of their commander. I'm not going to just make an order or make a speech to try and mend things between us. I'm going to do something about it, sir. I'm going to give my men an example, a reason, to repair with the Marines."

Travers smiled kindly and nodded a little.

"I got goosebumps on the back of my neck," he said quietly.

"The Marine Raiders begin training tomorrow. So will I."

For a few, long moments, Travers stared and blinked at her. Eventually, he wrinkled his nose and furrowed his brow.

"What?"

"You heard me, sir. I'm going to undergo Raider training with Major Royce's company."

"Going out on that recon was stupid enough, but Raider training? Under Swing? You don't know what you're in for, Waters."

"If I didn't know what I was in for, I wouldn't have bothered putting on this uniform," she said, motioning to her gray tunic with both hands.

Travers took his hand out of his pocket and ran it down his face.

"You do realize SF infantry training is not applicable to your MOS-"

"Vice Admiral Travers," Vivian smiled slyly, "we're in a state of war. More than that, we're fighting for our survival. Cross-branch training is less strict than it was in peacetime. I doubt anyone will mind, let alone notice."

Travers shook his head and turned back to the window.

"Do what you think is best."

"There is no best decision in the Navy, sir," Vivian said, "there's only one decision."

* * *

**Word Count: **6,169

**Author's Note: **A little announcement folks. Due to the COVID-19 pandemic, I know a lot of us are out of the job, out of school, or otherwise confined mostly to home. We have a little more time on our hands, including me. So, instead of a weekly update schedule, I've decided to change my upload schedules. Instead of **one chapter per week**, I will instead **upload chapters upon completion. **Essentially, that means chapters completed prior to an update time will be uploaded. Does this mean you can expect a chapter every day? No, not by any means, it takes me at least two to three days or more to write a chapter. Does this mean you can expect chapters a bit more frequently? Yes, of course. Not by a landslide, but noticeably. You can expect this for _I'm Alone: Exalt_ as well as _Marsh Silas: Inquisitor_. Please, take care of yourselves during this time.

Yeah, writing this chapter was a tad difficult. I did want to delve into Carris's head and get a stream of conflict thoughts. But that really held me up and it was hard to get this chapter to move. It's a bit dialogue heavy and I'm not totally comfortable with that. But, it's done, and the job is done. I think from here I can really get it moving now, sort of move beyond this emotional stuff that's characterized the first eleven chapters, and achieve a typical-novel pace and narrative.

I have to admit, I am getting a little burned out with _I'm Alone. _I know, it's only been eleven chapters, but keep in mind how long it took to write the original story. I've been working with this cast of characters and story for nearly four years. I love it very much, and trust me, I love communicating with you all through this story, but as many of you who have written creatively on and off this site know, it can become easy to get bogged down on a long term project. It's why I'm more passionate and excited to work on _Marsh Silas: Inquisitor _right now, because it's fresher, and frankly, having only one main POV character makes writing for more accessible for me. I currently have six; that's a lot of minds to bounce between!

But I don't want to stop working on _I'm Alone. _Although I haven't set an exact chapter length for this one, I know it'll be somewhere in between 40 and 50 total chapters. I think every 15 chapters, I'll take a two week break from working on it just to give myself some breathing room. We'll see.

**Comment Responses: **

**MightBeGone: **Thank you, my man. I appreciate you pointing out errors like that; never hesitate to point something out, it can only help me! And I do like having my characters to have at least a couple layers, nothing super complex, but nothing too plain either? I recently said to Kabuto S. Inferno in a comment response for _Marsh Silas: Inquisitor _that I like my characters intriguing and my narratives to be simple. Nine times out of ten, plot/story progression is committed by a character making an action or having an idea, rather than external force poking their head in. That's my preferred style of writing and can only be done by having characters who are engaging and have a few dimensions.

I think you'll be seeing how Marines and ODSTs interact in the next chapter very plainly. And I take character deaths very seriously so don't worry my friend. Thanks for reading!

**TheCarlosInferno: **An apt description. It will be interesting to see how the characters progress and to see if they can repair their squad as well.

Alright, happy reading! Thanks for reading!

**longmoonedraptor: **Well, I'm glad to hear that! This story does operate on a **one chapter per week **policy, but like I said in the author's note, for the time being **chapters will be uploaded upon completion. **So that means they won't be sitting around waiting for next week to get uploaded. Thanks for reading!

**Ctrl-Dalt-Delete: **Wow, thank you so much for saying so. That's more than flattering, that's very humbling. Thank you.

I was actually worried some months back that the PTSD/Survivor's Guilt and other heavier issues that appear in this story and in the lore of the story would be too dark for a fanfic. But seeing as how readers have been able to engage, I guess it works. I'm doing my best to provide an entertaining and engaging ready experience, while at the same time try not to pass off these heavy, real-world issues in a romanticized, artful way; I want these issues to be realistic, stark, and unromanticized. A have a very big problem with the way films, shows, and other mediums glorify and romanticize aspects such as these. Anyways, I won't get on my rickety soap box.

I think it'll provide a new dynamic within the squad; not everything can be buddy-buddy all the time even if we, and personally _I _would like it to be. It really is good to be back, and more than that, I'm very happy you're back to read to. Means a lot to me, thank you.

As for Chips Dubbo, we'll see! I make no promises, so don't get your hopes up to high, but maybe there'll be something in future chapters. Again, don't get your hopes up, but we'll see.


	12. Chapter 12: Character of War

Chapter 12: Character of War

* * *

_Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Be-_

Vivian could not hit the alarm clock fast enough. Turning it around, she checked the time: oh-four-thirty hours. Moaning, she rolled onto her back and gazed up at the ceiling tiles through half-open, groggy eyes. Her dirty blonde hair spilled onto the white pillow, nearly covering it. Pushing a few stray locks from her cheeks and blowing a few from her mouth, she took in a deep, labored breath. All her muscles ached from laying in the same position all night long. An uncomfortable crick was right in the center of her neck and her left right arm and leg were filled with pins and needles.

Sleep threatened to take her again. Every few moments, her eyelids threatened to shut and she could feel a weightless feeling beginning to take hold. Each time it was about to claim her, she snapped her eyes back open and took a few quick breaths.

Getting up seemed like an impossibility. Knowing what was ahead of her, she wondered if she could even muster the will to merely sit up. Last night was the first time in a while she slept all the way through. Most nights, she awoke from strange, dark, and twisted dreams. Terrifying and heartbreaking, they followed her day and night. Shadows in her heart, shadows in her mind; she walked with five, not one. When she rested her head on the pillow, there were five more with her, seen and unseen.

One, undisturbed night of rest seemed like a hidden treasure. Now, she finally obtained it and she felt awful. Sore and stiff from head to toe, the slightest movement made her joints crack and pop. Despite being in the best of health, she awoke with a stuffy nose and sticky feeling in her chest. Even after a full night's sleep, she did not feel rested at all. Just rolling onto her back sent her heart rate skyrocketing. Or perhaps that was from a lack of physical exercise, she thought to herself.

Grumbling, she ran her hands down her face and grudgingly sat up. The moment she did, she was struck by a massive headache. It was not the sort of pain that balled up in the forehead. Instead, it was like there was a vise around her head and was slowly, steadily squeezing it until it would pop. It was as if her scalp was tightening, tightening, and tightening on her skull. Gritting her teeth, she reached up and held the sides of her head, hoping her own touch would alleviate some of the ache. While it had no effect on the pain itself, it was comforting to have them there anyways.

Once the headache surge passed, save for a malignant, vague dull soreness in the back of her neck, she threw the blanket off and swung her bare legs out. The envelope of warmth granted by the blankets quickly dissipated in the cool air of her sleeping quarters. Pulling the straps of her standard issue olive-drab tank top back over her shoulders, she rubbed her arms and shivered a little.

Vivian bent her neck from side to side, resulting in a satisfying _crick-crack. _She cracked her knuckles and back, then stretched her arms and legs. Finally feeling limber, she sighed and stood up. First, she made her bed just like she used to do at Luna Academy. It was neat, with the folds meeting the correct lengths and the ends tucked in without creases. Then, she went out into her office, filled with the waning moonlight of the early morning. She began brewing some coffee and while the machine whirred and sputtered, she went to the bathroom. After splashing her face, she brushed her teeth. Usually, she did not brush her teeth before she drank her morning coffee and breakfast. But she was skipping the latter; she could only assume what Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing was going to put them and the Marine Raiders through. Even if she had a morsel of food in her stomach she would end up vomiting it up; Vivian hoped to avoid that.

For a moment, she was going to turn the shower on, but hesitated. A day of training would end up leaving her dirty, sweaty, and smell; it made no sense to shower beforehand. Although it felt uncomfortable to shower, Vivian reminded herself there were millions upon millions of citizens in war zones all over the Colonies without running water, electricity, or even a roof over their heads. As well, countless millions of soldiers were entrenched without the same amenities either. She could go one training day without her morning shower.

By the time she was out of the bathroom, her coffee was ready. Blowing on it for a few minutes, she took a long sip and sighed, contented. Going to her desk, she checked her data pad for any reports. Besides the usual logs left by the base security detachment commander, there were none.

Vivian went back to her quarters. Setting her coffee mug down on the nightstand, she opened her nearby bureau. She donned her PT gear, which consisted of a gray t-shirt bearing the UNSC logo and the word 'NAVY' in big, bold, black letters, and a pair of black PT shorts which barely touched her knees. She drank more coffee and checked her clock again. It was neary oh-five-hundred hours.

Taking a deep breath, she drank the last of her coffee, donned her training shoes which were military-style running shoes, and went to the door.

She went outside. Save for a few early rising officers, orderlies, clerks, adjutants, preparing for the busy morning rush, as well as the relief staff for the night shifts, were moving in the halls. It was rare to see the corridors and winding staircases of the command center to be so vacant. The long halls were so quiet, Vivian could hear the _clack-clack-clack _of fingers tapping on terminal keyboards, accompanied by the _whir _and _buzz _of copying machines, printers, and scanners.

After saluting a pair of passing subordinates, Vivian went to the elevator and rode it all the way to the bottom level. Rows of desks on either side of the main entrance were populated by the morning staff, who were busily readying their stations. As Vivian passed by, each one rose to their feet and saluted. She saluted nearly the entire way to the door.

Just then, the sliding doors opened and Jasmine walked in. They almost bumped into each other.

"Another early morning?" Vivian asked, smiling cordially. Jasmine shrugged, wrapping her arms around her data pad and holding it against her chest.

"It's an administrative day for me," she said cheerfully. Vivan was glad to see her smiling, although Jasmine's expression shifted to that of concern. "Hey, what are you doing up so early? I've told you, you need more sleep. It's not good for you. Less sleep makes your body less resilient; less resilience, and you're more prone to getting a virus or infection."

"I thought it was an administrative day," Vivian said cheekily, planting one hand on her hip, examining her nails on the other, and rolling her eyes. Jasmine huffed.

"Why are you even up?"

"I blocked my schedule for the next few days. I'm joining the Marines selected for Raider Training."

"It'd be easier to fight the Covenant, I think," Jasmine replied warily. "I caught a look at the instructors, they're a mean looking bunch."

"I've seen their dossiers; I'd like to say I know what I'm in for but I doubt that's the case this time, Jas."

Vivian shrugged, but then smiled confidently. "It'll be one hell of a challenge. I may not be ready, but I'll learn something along the way, won't I? No use sitting around getting fat."

"Right," Jasmine said assuringly.

For a moment, the two friends stood in front of each other maintaining a friendly gaze. Already, Vivian's morning stupor seemed to pass just with the sight of her. Jasmine's face was glowing radiantly, her smile was wide and beautiful, and her black hair, tinged with golden locks, cascaded down to her shoulders and onto her back. As morning sunlight began to pour through the windows, filling the cavernous lobby with brilliant, golden-white light, she seemed to be the most beautiful person in the galaxy. Beyond that, she appeared the happiest of them too.

Seeing her so content, even so early in the morning, Vivian's gladdened heart sunk into melancholy. At first, it was just a minor list, but soon it was like a ship slipping beneath the waves for its death plunge.

Vivian remembered Jasmine's expression when Vice Admiral Travers arrived to end the entire affair. She was sullen, accusatory, and above all, disappointed. Gone was the light that seemed to follow her; her deep, tan skin was so pale it was nearly ashen. No spark or twinkle danced her richly dark eyes. Bleak and miserable, she did her best to fight the anger that boiled in her stomach and crawled up her throat. Jasmine's will to resist it was unmatched; not even Frost's temperament could match it.

Jasmine must have noticed because her eyebrows rose and she became concerned again. "Viv?"

"I'm sorry about...Nate," she said, rubbing the back of her head. "I thought I was doing the right thing, thought it was all laid out in front of me, plain to see. It was just paranoia and bitterness. I thought I was past it but look at me, right back to square one. Pathetic, right?" Vivian shook her head. "He's a good man, no matter what's done in the past, no matter what he did back then. What matters right now is just that, _right now_. I don't have the time to satiate my grudge. And I'm starting to think I just don't have it in me anymore. I'm really tired, Jas. Just so tired of the nightmares, memories, and anger. I'm ready to move on. I have to do, or else the future will just be filled with cycles upon cycles of accusations and resolutions."

Jasmine stared at her silently for a few moments. She appeared surprised, but a soft, tender look began to permeate in her sparkling eyes. Looking down slightly, she smiled a little and tucked her data pad into the large pocket on the inside of her white lab coat. Then, she reached out and took Vivian's hands in her own.

"Viv, I appreciate what you're saying. I'm glad you're thinking of the future, as well as..." she giggled a little, "...as well as right now. You've come a long way. I'm not upset anymore. I understand it's not easy to let go. It's one of the most difficult things a human being can do, and most people simply can't." Jasmine squeezed her hands. "I know Nate hasn't always been the person I know now. You're right, the present matters most, but that does not erase the past. I know some of those stories people tell are true. It was a different time, a different kind of war than the one we're fighting, and he was barely an adult when they sent him into whatever kind of hell Skopje was."

Jasmine stared deeply into Vivian's eyes. "I think...I think you're both victims. I also think you've known that for some time, and that might be the reason for your lingering animosity."

"Because he's just so familiar," Vivian murmured. "Yes, I think you're right."

Jasmine squeezed her hands and smiled reassuringly.

"Try not to show him or the other Marines up out there, okay?"

"I think they'll be carrying me back on a stretcher after this, Jas. Be ready with some IV-fluids, I'm going to need some."

"Because I just happen to keep one in my back pocket," Jasmine said, rolling her eyes.

Their hands dropped as a cadre of staff officers and other morning shift personnel came through the door. Like a wave breaking against a lone rock, they flowed around both sides of the pair and walked on, unconcerned.

At that moment, Vivian wanted to stay and spend the day with Jasmine. Even if she was just loitering in her office while she worked, she would prefer that over the training regime that was waiting for her. She made a mental note that before Operation: EXALT kicked off, they would spend some time together, just two old friends.

From the expression on Jasmine's face, Vivian could tell she was thinking the same thing.

"Well, I suppose it's time for me to go," Vivian said with a shrug. Then she winked at Jasmine. "I'll try not to upstage your _boyfriend_."

"You're just jealous because you don't have one," Jasmine said, winking back and sticking her tongue out for good measure.

Passing by each other, Jasmine proceeded to the elevators while Vivian stepped into the brisk dawn. Traveling across base, maneuvering between convoys and work details, she made her way to the training yards. After passing through the large gate, she found the ranks of the Marine Raiders already assembled. The company of nearly one-hundred fifty men, plus over two dozen attached personnel from different service branches, stood in their PT gear in lines. She traveled down the front rank after a moment's hesitation and went all the way to the end. It was there she found herself standing beside Gunnery Sergeant Frost. Nobody was in front of the ranks of the newly formed Alpha Company, although everyone that morning was referring to as FMRC: First Marine Raider Company.

Although they were lined up, no order to stand attention was given yet. In front of them were a dozen instructors, each in crisp, digital camouflage fatigues. Their sleeves were rolled up and their scars ranging from deep cuts to plasma burns were visible. Each one had their arms folded across their broad chests. Their gazes were hard, piercing, and intimidating to Vivian, who faced the maw of some of the most dangerous Covenant ships in her short career.

Unable to resist, she looked towards her left. Frost was clad in similar PT gear, although in bold print on the front it read, 'MARINES.' He did not seem apprehensive nor eager; instead, there was a look of acceptance on his scarred face. Eventually, she caught her looking and his cold gray eyes met hers. A small, affable smile tugged at his lips. All Vivian could do was nod.

Beside him was Corporal Steele, who appeared groggy and had deep, gray bags under his eyes. A unlit cigarette dangled loosely from his slips. Frost elbowed him.

"Put that away or the instructors will have your ass."

"Let'em," Steele eventually moaned, rubbing his forehead, "at least that'd be more interesting than waking up at this hour."

"You say that now, but once you're eating the ranking instructor's boot heel, you'll be sorry," said one of the female instructors standing in front of them. She was wearing a soft cover non-commissioned officer's cap and pulled it low on her brow. All they could was her confident, toothy smile.

Steele rolled his eyes.

"That's my mark for tonight," he said to Steele.

"You're going to need to be in your BDU's if you're going to try anything with her, mate," Maddox sneered from down the line. Without looking his way, Steele raised his middle and index finger.

Suddenly, the instructors all snapped into a rigid posture, with their heads up straight, their heels together, and arms flat against their sides.

"Attention!" somebody hollered.

Like everyone else, Vivian adopted the instructors posture.

At first, nothing happened and no one moved. Cool, morning wind drifted lazily into the quarter of the base, ruffling the lush green grass in the center of the oval-shaped track. When it passed, the sound of booted footsteps on the track could be heard. Each step was slow, deliberate, and calculated. The sounds grew louder as they came nearer.

As badly as Vivian wanted to look, she maintained her gaze and stared straight ahead. Following the wind, the clouds parted and the clear, morning light began to spread across the entire base. She watched the grass sway again and the clouds part. The footsteps grew closer and louder. Then, they stopped.

A large, tall man came into view. He wore a sharp fatigues like the other instructors and a soft cover cap. His face was weathered and worn, though devoid of any battle scars. Dark eyes canned the entire company.

Vivian braced herself; she knew who it was. He cleared his throat and folded his hands behind his back.

"At ease. My name is Master Gunnery Sergeant Angus Swing," he said in a calm but audible voice. "I'm in charge of whipping you all into fighting shape, to make line troops become elite troops. I know you've all seen action and have at the front for a very long time."

He closed his eyes and nodded for a few moments. When he opened them again, his brow furrowed and his lips flattened. "I bet you think you're hot-shit, don't you? Fancy fighters, real ground-pounders who know how to take the fight to the enemy. Some of you even reclaimed a planet."

Taking his hands from behind his back, he began to clap very slowly. He did this for a few minutes, then took a step up to Steele and plucked the cigarette from his lips. "Just in case you're blind, hard-of-hearing, or plain stupid, that was _sarcastic _clapping. I don't give a shit that you got a planet back or you've been out here for however many years it's been. You ain't shit compared to the Marines I served with back in 2525. You ain't got a hope of ever being like them, but if you listen to what I tell you, there's a chance you might."

He began walking up and down the line, gazing at them menacingly. "You lot are _sloppy. _You know how I can tell? Because you've got nicks and cuts all over your ugly mugs."

Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing stopped in front of Frost. He eyed him up and down, then narrowed his eyes at the horizontal scar across the Gunnery Sergeant's face. Grunting, Swing grabbed him by the cheeks. Vivian watched Frost's eyes pop as the drill instructor guided the Marine's face from up, down, and side to side, as if he was inspecting a prize horse.

"You've got one ugly mug, Jack the Ripper," Swing growled. "Do you know how you got that scar, son?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" Frost said as the drill instructor let go of his cheeks.

"Tell me."

"Sir, I was struck by shrapnel from a grenade fired by a Brute Shot, sir!"

"Wrong," Swing said, glaring at him. "I know how you got that fucking ugly scar. Would you like to know?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"Because you're _stupid._" Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing poked him very hard in the chest as he spoke. "You got wounded because you're _stupid. _You have scars all over yourself because you're _stupid. _Do you know why I have a pristine mug that ought to be on the skin lotion commercials, son?"

"Sir, no, sir!"

"Because I'm _smart. _Do you know what _smart _Marines do, son?"

"Sir, they don't get hit in the face by Brute grenade shrapnel, sir!"

"Correct!" Swing said, then pointed to the track. "Three laps equals one mile, son. Give me thirty laps laps, go, go, go!"

"Sir, yes, sir!" Frost shouted and took off.

"And you don't stop until I tell you to stop!" Swing called after him.

Vivian heard snickering beside her. Looking to her left, Steele was stifling his own laughter. Marines around him looked at him warily and shook their heads. Even Vivian found herself trying to make a sound or a quick, clandestine motion of hand to tell him to stop. But it was futile; Swing whirled around and walked up to Steele. He held the cigarette he took back up, then held it close to his lips.

Steele nearly crossed his eyes looking at it, then looked at the Master Gunnery Sergeant.

"Sir?"

"Take it."

Steele slowly raised his hand but Swing smacked it down. "With your lips, you idiot." Apprehensively, Steele leaned forward and gingerly took the end of the cigarette with his lips. As soon as he stood back up, Swing slapped him across the face and the cigarette went flying onto the ground.

The sniper's head remained recoiled towards Vivian, his eyes wide and blinking. Eventually, he turned back around to face Swing and began rubbing his cheek.

"Ow..." he muttered.

"Ow, what?" Swing growled.

Steele glared at him.

"Ow, _sir_," he replied.

"Forty laps. Move your ass and get out of my fucking face."

Steele stepped by him and joined Frost just as the Gunnery Sergeant completed a circuit. Swing watched them for a few minutes, then looked over his shoulder at the rest of the company. Turning around slowly, he folded his hands behind his back again. He surveyed the ranks in front of him, then bounced his eyebrows in the air. "Does anyone have a good reason for why you're all standing there like a bunch of dumb fucking sheep? Get. Running."

At that moment, the instructors behind barreled toward the company. Screaming and swearing, they ordered all the Marines and associated personnel attached to the unit onto the track. As if running for their lives, they bolted onto the track and began running. Save for Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing, the instructors hounded them the entire way.

Just as Vivian began to move onto the track, Swing held his arm out in front of her. "Captain Waters?"

"Yes. It's good to meet you Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing."

"Master Guns, ma'am, you ain't got to be formal with me. You sure you want to go along with the Marines on this? They're training to be SF and this ain't gonna be pretty in the least."

"I'm sure. I have to."

Swing scoffed for a moment, then smiled.

"Have it your way, ma'am."

Vivian grinned confidently.

"Just treat me like you would any of the Marines."

"You sure about that? I'm not gonna wave you on and give you fucking milk and cookies like they did at OCS."

"Do your worst, Master Guns."

He chuckled, then narrowed his eyes and pointed at the track. No word nor any sound passed his lips, he merely pointed and grimaced intensely at her. Both eyes seemed to glow with a deep fire, making them almost red, and his jaw was set so firmly she could see the muscles tensing up.

###

So began day after day of some of the most grueling training Vivian ever experienced in her life.

At OCS, she partook in infantry and weapons drills beyond her Navy training. It was expected that every officer and soldier within the UNSC military be versed in the realm of ground combat. When push came to shove, the galaxy-spanning war always found its way planetside. Too often, the jettisoned survivors of a fallen UNSC starship landed on the surface of a planet and joined the local garrison in its combat efforts. Navy personnel were required to be prepared for that kind of warfare and officers more so. Vivian studied as hard as she could though devoted most of her studying towards her Naval expectations. While she could handle most firearms and basic explosives, and knew the bare minimum for small unit tactics, she felt totally unprepared for Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing's training regime.

The whole first week was spent on physical conditioning. Each day, they ran lap after lap on the tracks. Off the track, they donned full BDU's and conducted long-range ruck marches into the Port's hinterland. They trekked over the plains, struggled through ravines, gullies, and rivers, trudged up mountains ridges and down the other side. Wearing somewhere between eight to one hundred pounds of gear, Vivian was not just out of break, she was _sucking _for air. Each time Swing called a halt, she could hear the exasperated, relieved, labored sighs of every other Marine around her. At first, she was nervous the other Marines would find her weak and mock her behind her back as a wannabe. Seeing them toiling just as hard as she was after so many years of ground combat put her mind at ease. Along the way, if she tripped, one, two, or three of the Marines would be beside her in moments and would have her back on her feet. When one of them fell, she took their hands or by their armor's webbing and pulled them back up too. Often, they were so fatigued on the march, someone would stop and crouch, balancing the elbow of their non-dominant arm on their knee as they held their weapon. It was the only way to relieve the terrible drag of their backpacks. Each time Vivian did so, several Marines would pass by, but eventually one would tap her back, shoulders, or helmet and sat, 'C'mon skipper, we've got to go,' or, 'keep it up, skip', we're almost there.'She found strength in their own resolve and the few words they offered.

Sometimes they spent all day and all night out in the hinterland. Occasionally, Frost would be nearby with some of his own squad members. They would exchange a few words, usually remarking on Swing's hardiness and cruelty, or the difficulty of the terrain. Once in a while, usually during a halt, Frost would tell her an old war story. Leaning against her rucksack or balancing on her knee, she listened to the tales he and other Marines spun. Most of their stories were rife with humor or some kind of wholesome ending. Usually, their bad times became good, or they encountered the outright oddities of war. Frost recalled one insistence on being on an undeveloped colony world, barely off its own feet after its agricultural introduction. He expected many of the farm animals in the pastures to flee from the gunfire. Although disturbed by the gunfire, he found it particular the cows continued to graze not too far from their position along a wooden fence as they engaged Covenant scouts. He also remarked it was one of the strangest evacuations during his entire career. The Covenant were so lackadaisical in their invasion they had time to evacuate the farm animals; waving his arms and raising his voice, he and other Marines experienced with such animals herded them up ramps into civilian starships. During the journey to a safer sector, some of the civilians joked about eating a few of the cows. But the Marines, having shared a battlefield with the beeves, did not have the heart to shoot them, no matter how hungry they were.

Stories like those added a strange mysticism to the war, which started to seem like a dream. Months passed since Vivian's ships engaged a Covenant fleet. It was still happening all over the Colonies; the Covenant were pushing deeper into human controlled space, and the UNSC was falling back in most sectors and pushing ahead in a few limited scenarios. War of this scale was never seen before, not even during the war with the Insurrectionists. It was a new kind of war with the same characteristics of every conflict that preceded it, just on a far more vast of a scale. Just like in those periods of strife, there were still stories to tell, jokes to be laughed at, and things to fill one's chest with wonder. War seemed so far away and utterly elusive. She wondered if they were to stay if it would simply pass them by. Had the war forgotten them? Had its character changed? Or perhaps, had they forgotten the war? But there was little time to think; the moment her mind truly began to run, Swing ordered them back on their feet and deeper into the hinterland.

At first, she was so exhausted and focused on making it through the ruck-marches to avoid Swing's wrath, she paid almost no attention to the environment. But as the days folded into weeks, and her body grew stronger, she could finally take stock. Prowling through the deep woods or sitting on the heavily vegetated ridges, she began to fall in love with the Port. It was more than just a strategic base or an objective to hold. It was green and beautiful; in the mornings, she watched the fog sit in the distant forests or roll down the hills. There were birds whose squawks and calls carried throughout the trees. When it rained, she did not mind. It was majestic to see the rainwater running down tree bark, streaming off of leaves, and to hear it pattering on the treetops. The Marines clustered together, letting the rain fall on their helmets and acting quite unconcerned with being cold and wet. When it rained, they often sang; Frost liked to sing a few verses with his buddies from flip music, while others beatboxed to more modern tunes.

The longer Vivian trained with them, the harder it got, but she began relishing the challenge. She was watching the others change around her as well; everyone was becoming more capable as the weeks stretched on. People began to grow stronger, bigger, and healthier. Weapon drills began to break up their field training. Vivian found herself handling some of the most advanced versions of basic firearms she had never seen before. Obstacle courses with painted and marked plywood denoted weapon mounts, positions to take cover behind, to rush, assault, frag, and shoot. The entire time, Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing and the other instructors were running with her, telling her over and over again what targets to pass, which to shoot, where to mount her rifle, which way to lean in and out of cover. She practiced weapon handling, maneuvering everything from M7 submachine guns to MA5C assault rifles in ways she never thought of. She held weapons sideways, close to her chest, and rapidly switched between her primary weapon and her sidearm in close quarters. Above all, she enjoyed breaching drills. When the charge detonated, blasting the door off its hinges, they were told to ride the explosion into the target room. Vivian always wanted to be the first one. Each room they assaulted via breach, she found herself getting faster, more accurate, and less afraid.

Watching the line Marines in action was always a spectacle. They brought their experience into the training; seeing their improvised field techniques flourish in the Raider course was inspiring. Everything they did was aggressive, but it was complemented by precision. Bodies flowed around corners like water and their reflexes were unmatched. Vivian did her best to be competitive, as they were all in a race to be the fastest runner and the most precise sharpshooter.

One day after an extended period of weapons drills, the Marine Raiders were assembled in the training yard. Swing and his instructors were in front of them.

"Today, we'll be practicing CQC drills."

On his belt was a black scabbard with a black handled fighting knife. He pulled out and held it out in front of him. "The Ka-Bar fighting-utility knife, standard issue in the Corps. Most of you should be familiar with this blade."

Holding it back some, he surveyed them again. "Alright, one of you get up here and try to stab me."

Nobody stood up. Swing's plain face furrowed into a grimace. "I gave you an order, Raiders. One of you will stand up and try to stab me."

Vivian looked around. None of the Marines sitting around her stood up. Unimpressed, Swing scoffed and shook his head. "Alright then. Two of you stand up and try to stab me."

Just then, she saw someone stand up. It was Frost. He dropped his gear, save for his knife which he pulled with deliberation from the sheath. Stepping from the crowd, he stood in front Swing for a few moments. His arms were by his side, the blade clutched tightly in his grap. Oddly, his head was forward, as if he was a dog about to snarl at a foe.

Swing just stared at him. The other instructors backed off. All the other Marines remained seated.

Vivian pulled off her webbing, stood up, and took her own Ka-Bar from its scabbard. Swing and Frost both looked at her and she walked up to them.

"I'm ready, Master Guns," she told him.

"Two on one," Swing said, "bet you think this ain't an even fight."

"It isn't, sir," Frost grunted.

"You're right," Swing said with a confident smile, "a few more of you should have stood up."

Frost lunged first, swiping horizontally as he did. Swing took one step back, deflected the blade with his own, then punched Frost in the face with his palm. Stuanned, the Gunnery Sergeant stumbled back. Vivian went next, keeping her knife underhand and staying low. She wanted to stay underneath his arms, forcing him to bend over and stab down to attack, while she could jab upwards. When she got close, she tried to jab but instead he caught her wrist with his other hand. The next thing Vivian saw was his knee. It hit her in the face hard and she fell onto her back. Opening her eyes, she saw him standing over her. Frost came into view, trying to grapple him. Instead, Swing broke the hold Frost had around his trunk by forcing both elbows back into him. Then, he ducked down, stuck his leg out, and spun around. With a yelp, Frost was swept off his feet.

Vivian scrambled up as fast as she could; she was dizzy from the blow to her head. Knowing that if she got her knife under his throat that he would end the exercise in their favor, she tried to quickly slide her arms under his and bring her knife around before he got back up. But she was thrown off guard before she could position the knife; he immediately stood up, taking her off her feet, jumped off the ground and landed on her back. Vivian gasped as all the air went out of her lungs.

Swing did not waste time with her. Frost was coming for him again, staying low and keeping his knife out in front of him. As she recovered her breath, she watched as Swing and Frost crossed knives. The former appeared calm and determined, while Frost's eyes were wide and his teeth were clenched and bared. Their arms shot out, crossed, withdrew, and darted back out. Sometimes they turned their knives over and they began to grapple or exchange hand-to-hand blows in an effort to gain the upperhand. Frost was fast, his fighting skills sharp, and his pose experienced, but Swing held the initiative and did not let it go. He parried and blocked, used his fist to hit Frost in the gut or the side. As many times as the Gunnery Sergeant dodged and blocked a blow, there were two more he could not manage.

Finally regaining her breath, Vivian got back up. Just as she did, she watched as Frost finally gained the upper hand and knocked the knife from Swing's grasp. Crying out, he placed his hand on the pommel of his Ka-Bar and lunged. But Swing grabbed his hand and stopped Frost dead in his tracks.

"Now, skipper!" Frost yelled at her. Vivian lunged towards Swing. Despite holding Frost, the Master Gunnery Sergeant sidestepped, taking Frost with him. He caught Vivian's arm under his own, wrenched it up, and squeezed. Blood circulation to her hand was immediately cut off. Vivian felt her hand open instinctively and the knife fell on the grass. Gritting her teeth, she tried to free her arm but it was no use. It was like being trapped in a vise. Using her free arm, she reached around and awkwardly pawed at Swing's face. Finally latching on, she pulled back as hard she could. Then, she watched as he began to step forward, putting more weight on Frost's grip with only one hand. To her amazement, Frost began to kneel as he tried to hold Swing back. As Swing leaned forward, Vivian could no longer hold his face. Her left arm was now too far from him to try and hit him. The more he keeled forward, the more pressure he put on her arm.

Vivian held her trapped right arm and tried to pull it free. Then, his arm released and she fell back. Stumbling onto her back, she tried to catch herself and get back up. Instead, Frost was thrown into her and the pair fell onto the grass in front of the other Marines.

Panting heavily, they both sat up, half on each other. Looking up, Vivian saw Swing standing over them. He doffed his cap and ran a hand over his bald head. "I expected as much from you, Jack the Ripper. You've got skill, but you're too wild. When you're in a fight like that, your goal is to _kill _the enemy. Not tear them apart; that takes too much time, you young fool."

His gaze shifted to Vivian. "I like your spirit, Captain. You'll make a fine student."

He bent over, picked up their Ka-Bar knives, and handed them back. Frost and Vivian slid them back into their belt-mounted scabbards. They helped each other up and then stood at attention.

Swing nodded approvingly. "Raiders, when I'm done with you, the Covenant will find the war has changed. You looking forward to seeing the surprise on their ugly mugs next time they try to overrun your position?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" everyone hollered.

"That's what I like to hear! Now, pick a partner and draw your Ka-Bar knives; we'll be doing this all day!

* * *

**Word Count: **6,315

**Author's Note: **I've been looking forward to this chapter a lot. Swing is a nice fresh character to add in and kick the heck out of the characters that I've worked with for so long. That said, it took way too long; I've been working on this since Wednesday. For some reason, it was hard to stay motivated and focused on it. I love this story and these characters, but I suppose my current passion is _Marsh Silas_, I get really energized when I write for that. Here, it's more of reaching a quota. Maybe the farther I get, the more motivated I'll get. Next week, I'll try to pinch it off early. I'm a tad tired so my comment responses are going to be brief.

**Comment Responses: **

**MightBeGone: **Creativity comes and goes, yes indeed. I actually recently made a list of things I do to start and keep writing, so it helps to refer to it. I suppose, in the end, _Marsh Silas _is just fresher for me and easier to work with. _I'm Alone _has been worked on for...what, four years now? Just about? It's a long-term project and I'm sort of feeling the burn. Perhaps it would have been better to wait a couple more months. Writing this chapter took longer because of my lack of motivation and difficulty to focus; I could have forced it, but forcing it is not a good idea. You'll hate your work eventually, and I don't want that feeling to happen again. Ah, I sound quite dour; I appreciate your comment, thanks for reading. (Probably gonna be errors in this one; I'm fuck-ass tired.)

**Ctrl-Dalt-Delete: **Way back when, I originally wanted the core cast members like Frost and Vivian to be older and a little more morally ambiguous. But I worried that didn't it wouldn't quite catch readers' attention so I de-aged them a bit and made their characters more clear-cut. Now, I'm having a good time expanding on Frost's highly questionable morality and it's been very gratifying to show that a lot of the stuff he said and believed in the first story was pretty much a lie he told himself to ease his conscience. That'll be a running theme, obviously.

Yep, you're absolutely right about that. The UNSC wasn't afraid to pull some bullshittery despite the fight for survival being waged. That'll come up a bit too, as it already has. Thanks for reading, my man.

**Skyler: **Thanks a lot for that, it really bolsters my confidence knowing you're enjoying the story and that you've noted improvement. Sometimes, creators are so wrapped up in their work that they just feel like they're stagnating and churning out the same tosh, but feedback like that really lets me know my work is paying off. I really appreciate you taking the time to check the story out, come back to it, and that you can sink your teeth into it. Thanks.


	13. Chapter 13: Start

Chapter 13: Start

* * *

As the 89th Marine Expeditionary Unit continued re-train and the other combat elements began to revitalize themselves from months of planetside service, the Port grew even busier. It was difficult to imagine it could. Already, supply convoys were bringing in the harvests from the fields in preparation for the task force's food stores and huge trucks continued to bring valuable titanium from the mountains to be processed. Day and night, the titanium plants, drydocks, shipyards, and motor pools were active. Around the clock, crews worked in the plants, rotating shifts of six hours to ensure material output was a constant flow. Production facilities were producing everything from the M274 Mongoose to the M808 Scorpion main battle tank. Army and Marine units continued joint-exercises, and the massive elements crossed the plains outside of the main facility. Falcons and Hornets continued practice runs on distant prairies, strafing targets and providing cover for mock airborne assaults.

What vehicles, aircraft, supplies, equipment, and other assets unused for training missions were being stockpiled. Cargo containers from transport ships coming from Great Bear landed continually. A great hoard of containers were piled up in the supply depots. Soon, there was not enough room for it all. Airfields were lined with stacks of green, blue, and red shipping containers. Motor pools bulged with ranks of heavy and light vehicles, and soon the airfields were lined with VTOLs and orbital craft parked wing to wing. Armories were packed to capacity with weapons, ammunition, body armor, explosives, and everything else a Marine could carry on his person. Space was becoming so limited, the armory staff members were begging the command staff not to increase their stock.

Temporary schools were established for personnel receiving promotions or re-training. Personnel who received battlefield commissions were now undergoing the proper education, albeit on a fast-track, to obtain a degree necessary to their new grade. Most of the planners were well aware most would not have the opportunity to complete their education before jump-off, but not starting career paths would be counter-productive. Experienced, local officers took the newly promoted personnel, who longed served as non-commissioned officers, on tours of their units, educated them on organization, logistics, small unit tactics, command authority, advanced navigation, cooperation with other units, and how to conduct oneself as a commissioned officer. Marines and other enlisted personnel began cross-training in different schools; communication, marksmanship, diving, parachuting, free-fall parachuting, airborne training, vehicle licensing, heavy weapons, and engineering. Already experienced soldiers were steadily becoming more diverse in their skill-sets and applicable training.

The firing range was lined with rows and rows of personnel seeking to increase their weapon proficiency. Even those assigned to non-combat roles were found lining the entryway to the range to get some shooting time in. Heavy weapons teams, operating mortars and heavy machine guns, were on their own separate ranges shooting at dummy targets and old, burned hulks. Faraway from the base, across the plains, Scorpion tanks went to gunnery school and shot at distant, remote-controlled targets. Warthog convoys split into wide, massive groups, appearing as armada of fast attack vehicles, practicing hit-and-run raids against mock-up Covenant bases, destroying supplies, defenses, and vehicles before the 'enemy' could react. M4000 Kodiak self-propelled artillery platforms formed batteries and bombarded targets in support of infantry operations.

Inside the command center, it was like the interior of an ant colony. All of the associated logistical personnel and administrative staffers were packing the building. Conference rooms were occupied by so many officers, ranging from those with stars on their collar to those with a single golden bar, there was hardly any more standing room. Presentations hosted on large screens briefed officers on Operation: EXALT's objective planets, operational plans, rally points, forward bases, and educational methods in case the offensive failed. Offices buzzed with readouts of each target planet's characteristics; gravity, biospheres, seasons, rotations, atmospheric pressure, potential weather hazards ranging from hurricanes to tsunamis, and system qualities such as the number of moons or asteroid belts. Image after image was blown up on a screen or passed around in page-sized images for every officer to see. Every individual with an officer was answering messages on their data pads and on their military-use mobile device, organizing the distribution of supplies, allocating resources for different branches, and ordering related units to conduct exercises.

In the largest conference hall, the 1st CBG's core officer staff assembled to go over their own plans. Major Holst, unenthused about sitting in planning rooms, and Captain De Vos, diligent and contributing, represented the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers. Colonel Hayes, accompanied by his new executive officer as Major Royce was effectively in charge of the new Alpha Company, Lieutenant Colonel Cokes, brought their infantry plans and status updates for the 89th MEU. Cokes was one of the few men who did not grow up in the Earthen Youth Programs; like many of the command staff officers, he saw action in the early days of the war and was fighting ever since. He was a tall, sinewy man from a place called Newport in Wales. Despite appearing as a stocky poster-image for the UNSC Marine Corps, he was found to be a highly intelligent individual with an advanced education in engineering and technology. Also present was Major General Amsterdam, in command of Army elements and the Port's security. Amsterdam overcame her shock regarding the botched reconnaissance operation regarding the smugglers; her normal motivated, boisterous, energetic attitude returned. She was running her soldiers through extensive, exhausting training, in an effort to, 'make fighting the Covenant feel like a vacation by comparison,' in her own words. Unlike many offensives in the past few years of the war, the Army was going to play an active component rather than a stationary force waiting to be moved to the front line. Joint Marine-Army training was seeing the latter component engage in combat tactics outside of its usual doctrines. Marines, acting as shock troops, would perform initial landing operations while airborne-trained Army units assisted by large scale heavy infantry with armor support would follow in their wake. Utilizing both ground branches of the UNSC military would see pressure alleviated from one or the other, freeing units to engage on wider fronts rather than concentrated areas.

Finally, there were the Navy captains; Kelly, Slater, Alastair, and Kolchak. Rundstrum was physically absent, as he took _River Styx _into enemy territory to begin reconnoitering the target planets for the main task force as well as the supporting and diversionary raids the _I'm Alone _and her task force would be conducting. However, he made time to establish a live video feed and was able to deliver his intelligence reports in real-time.

Present at all these meetings was also Lieutenant Commander Jasmine Ebrahimi. As the leading Navy surgeon, she enhanced the plans with projected casualty figures, organizing joint-field medical centers that could be quickly established after making planetfall. Examining the different planetary environments, consisting of sprawling deserts, dense jungles, arctic plains, she informed them of the potential illnesses and hazards an infantryman could encounter. Heatstroke and dehydration, malaria, beriberi, and trench foot, and hypothermia and frostbite, respectively. She provided reports on medicinal stores and what could be divided between each of the combat support hospitals. Based on the enemy presence and the types of attacks the assault forces would be making, she also recommended the number of aircraft that would have to be reserved for CASEVAC details.

Vivian did her best to come to meetings. Often, she would just be coming from the field during a break in their training sessions with Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing. Most of her fellow Navy officers would laugh at her, dressed in full Marine BDU's with dirt and sweat clinging to her face. Breathlessly, she contributed her own ideas and objectives for their raids. She wanted them to be surgical; fast, high-damage, and low-risk. Hayes assured her with their advanced training Alpha Company would be able to perform such feats. De Vos and Holst agreed and recommended joint-action with the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers. Vivian asked the two forces to begin joint-training and show her the results. She also submitted her own fleet formations, ensuring the Navy component of the task force would be able to conduct fast, sharp raids in conjunction with the Marine Raiders and ODSTs.

It was impossible to imagine it could become any busier than it already was. But when the fleet arrived carrying the assault forces for Operation: EXALT, it became like a megacity. After weeks of cryogenic slumber, Marines and Navy personnel were itching for a chance to come planetside. They filled the empty barracks rooms like water filling a glass, and soon temporary camps were erected in any place they could find free space. So many troops gathered on the planet, the camps had to be placed outside the compound walls. Mess halls were so crowded personnel had to eat outside, sitting on the compound pavement. Atmosphere-rated ships parked in dyrocks while others docked at the shipyard being constructed in orbit.

Each morning when Vivian left her quarters for Raider training, she could not help but smile mystically at the military might the UNSC brought to the Port. Seeing so many bodies, vehicles, and ships filled her heart with pride and a feeling of resolve. Whether she was briefing her officers, conferring with task force commanders, touring the base, or training with the Raiders, her spirit was becoming more resolute. It felt as though she, and the rest of the men and women she would be fighting with, could do anything. Crush any Covenant foe, reclaim planets, strike deep into enemy territory, and regain the initiative of the war. Her heart would soar every time she saw a formation of Falcons or Shortswords fly overhead.

For the first time in many years, she was beginning to sleep easier. Perhaps, life was beginning to synthesize and progress, or maybe she was just worn out from Swing's training.

Back on the training grounds, she and Frost crossed Ka-Bar blades once again. Darting, recoiling, slashing, stabbing, grappling, they fought tooth and nail. As hard Vivian fought, he always came out the victor.

Thrown on the ground, hard, she tried to get back up. But the moment she opened her eyes and sat up, Frost's knife hovered just in front of her neck. For a moment, he stared into her shining, emerald green eyes, then grinned.

"Gotcha."

Vivian smirked back.

"One day I'll wipe that smug look off your face," she remarked.

Frost stood up, sheathed his blade, and extended his hand. Vivian took it and he heaved her up with ease.

"You're getting better," he said. "I can tell. You're quicker, you're thinking faster on your feet, you're getting more unpredictable."

"Is that the key to close-quarters-combat?"

"It's certainly an element, maybe not the most important one," Frost said, grabbing the straps of his vest and swinging back and forth on his heels. "Covvies aren't like us. Humans study each other, figure out what tactics and tech works best against who. The split-jaws just rely on their own skill and raw strength to fight, without the context of their opponent."

Vivian considered this for a moment, sliding her knife back into its scabbard and readjusting her M52B body armor. Then, she nodded her head to the side.

"It's almost like their ships' glassing beams. Why bother fighting a protracted battle when you can just vaporize a whole world."

For a moment, Frost quirked an eyebrow in confusion. Then, he nodded his own to the side and smiled.

"Yeah. They just brute-force their way through everything, because they think we're inferior to them." He detached the scabbard from his shoulder pauldron and tossed it end over end a few times. "I've eighty-sixed enough Elites to know they're not invincible. They're not afraid to get close, but they get confused when _you _try to close the gap. Fuckers are used to people running way from them, not towards them."

Frost tossed the scabbard high into the air, caught when it came back down, and clipped it back to the shoulder mount. With an amiable smile, he pointed at Vivian. "Kind of like you."

At that point, Vivian had crouched down and was adjusting the webbing she laced across her combat trousers. After fastening the tactical soft cases she wore on each thigh, she looked back at him.

"You mean I run towards them?"

"You're one of the first Navy officers I've known in a while who wants to _engage _the enemy, rather than idle around in at-risk sectors waiting for them to show up. Don't they say the best defense is a good offense?" Frost took the canteen from his belt, unscrewed the cap, and took a quick slug. He handed it down to Vivian, who readily accepted it and took a slug. When she handed it back, his hand lingered on the canteen, his fingers on her's. He was still smiling. "I'd rather fight with someone who wants to get at the enemy, rather than sit around on their ass. Guess I'm lucky they slotted us with you."

As stupefying as he sounded, Vivian felt her lips tug into a smile. Sometimes, she thought about that. A whole galaxy of systems and planets, billions of people serving together to stave off the Covenant, and somehow in the chaos and carnage of war, they ended up in the same place. The man she saw wanted to find, the man she once wanted to kill, the man who seemed to have taken everything from her, and here he was, with her, fighting side-by-side with her. An enemy had become a comrade soldier. She wondered if there was a God, or destiny, or some kind of plan for her and every other person out there. Such thoughts never lasted too long; she had seen war and it was enough to extinguish any concept of a benevolent being controlling life's events. Coincidence seemed too loose of a word to define it all, but what else was there? Luck, he said. She never placed much faith in luck itself, but she found it far more agreeable than a divine plan or mere coincidence. But she wondered what was more astounding, however; their meeting, or that they cooperated with one another rather than try to tear the other's throat out?

Looking at that charming, affable smile, fringed with a latent sadness, she decided that was just the kind of person he was. An individual who was able to move on from the past, someone who, while not immune to forming grudges, could eventually overcome them. By comparison, she let her grudge fester and ferment, burning in a cauldron for half a decade, waiting to burst. What damage had she done but to herself? Anger could give a person a certain drive they lacked before, but it consumed so, so much energy. Vivian did not realize how tired she was these past years. There was no peace, no closure, but she was able to let go. For the first time in many, many years, she felt like she had strength to spare.

Vivian let her hand drop from the canteen as she stood up. Frost clipped it to his belt again. He looked off to the sidelines of the training field and chuckled a little. Following his gaze, Vivian chuckled. Standing off with a crowd of observes, containing Army, Navy, and Marine enlisted men and officers, was Jasmine. She was not wearing her white lab coat, simple her black trousers and olive drab Navy-issue turtleneck sweater.

After waving at the pair, she walked over. As she did, Vivian looked at Frost. His gray eyes twinkled as he watched the doctor approach.

"Hey Viv, Nate," she said, turning to each of them. For a moment, the pair leaned in, but instantly stepped back. Blushing, he nervously looked at the other Marines and personnel all around them. Many of the Raiders were still practicing melee combat; some dueled with knives, others bayonet training, and others still performed various martial arts.

After clearing her throat, she nodded towards Vivian. "Try not to kill the captain, would you? It would be a real shame to kick off this new offensive and not have her around."

"I'm inclined to agree with you," Frost chuckled, looking at Vivian, "she's not as bad as you said she is."

Jasmine's eyes popped and her jaw opened. She hit him on the shoulder and laughed.

"I never said _anything _like that, Nate Frost."

"She tells me a lot of things," Frost said to Vivian. Jasmine stepped in front of the Marine, putting a hand on his mouth.

"Don't listen to him, Viv, he's just being an ass."

Swing was out of sight, knocking four Marines around as they tried to beat him in a wrestling match, so the trio chatted for a little while. They talked about the weather, the build-up, the push, the activity all over base, and the training. It was friendly and light-hearted; in the midst of the conversation Vivian imagined they might have been talking casually in a restaurant or a park if they were civilians. She was unsure what civilians talked about anymore beyond the war; school, spouses, children, employment, the prices at the grocery store, the price for fuel at the station, planning mixers to spend time with people they did not even like. She was far more comfortable speaking about training that involved bare blades and boxing, or the high-powered weapons a heavy starship could fire in combat.

The conversation would have continued, but Moser and Grant arrived. The former leaned toward Frost and whispered something in his ear. In an instant, the Gunnery Sergeant's smile disappeared.

"I'll be back in a few," he said. He leaned down and kissed Jasmine on the cheek, either uncaring or too unaware of the people around him to care. Either way, Jasmine blushed vividly and hid a bashful smile while he walked away.

Vivian watched him go, looked at her friend, and laughed.

"I hope I'm the maid of honor."

"Shut up," Jasmine said, waving her hand. "So, are you going to turn in your tunic for a set of BDU's?"

"We both know that'll never happen," Vivian said. The two began walking away from the mass of Marines training all around them. "Are you on a break?"

"I came to tell you we have more than enough biofoam and other associated medical supplies for both our mission and the main task unit for the op. The problem is storage; if we're overloaded here on the ground, then we'll definitely be overloaded when we make the jump."

"I've been thinking about that too. I was planning to requisition a few heavy-tonnage transport ships from Great Bear, but I'm starting to think that may not be a good idea. This isn't like the wars of several centuries ago; we can't just have our transport ships sitting with the main fleet. The main task force won't have enough. They're frigates will be in-atmosphere providing fire support, the heavier ships will be providing system security in case other Covenant ships arrive. Tasking even one ship to the transports will decrease combat efficiency."

"Viv, there are a lot of ships up there. Maybe we convince Rear Admiral Travers to get a few extra ships, maybe some frigates, for security."

"I'll give it a shot. We need to bring as much as the supplies possible. At least, after taking the first planet we can establish a large supply depot there rather than relying on the Port as a main supplier."

"Right." Jasmine smiled then, clasping her hands in front of herself. Then, she took a few steps ahead of Vivian, turned, and walked backwards so she could face her. Vivian smiled quizzically at her.

"You're in a good mood."

"I am."

"Care to tell me why?"

"Because you are," Jasmine giggled. "It's nice to see you happy. Some people like to go out, hit the bars, stuff their faces, go back to their apartment, drink a bit more, and talk utter nonsense until they pass out. That's what they describe as 'happy.' Viv Waters finds a bit of happiness training with leathernecks and planning to blow up the bad guys with big guns."

Jasmine turned back around and fell in step with Vivian. Reaching the sidelines, they went to some quartermasters who were passing out water bottles to the trainees. The cold, rainy weather which characterized the Port's past season gave way to a lull: a brief warm, sunny day. One could have mistaken it for Spring.

Vivian took a long drink and sighed.

"This beats sitting around at home trying to go to college and painting my nails every damn night," she said.

"Tell me about," Jas added.

The two went over to a grassy spot near the track and sat down cross-legged side by side. They were adjacent to some of the Navy personnel who came to observe the Raider training while off-duty. Nobody seemed to notice their commanding officer dressed in the Marine BDU's sitting less than five yards away.

Eyeing them as she drank, Vivian noticed the unimpressed looks on their faces. Many had their hands in their pockets or their arms folded across their chests. When they watched a Marine manhandle another into submission, they would lean towards each other and speak in hushed tones. Occasionally, one would scoff or snort disdainfully. Some shook their heads.

She looked back at the Marines. The men who were not busy trying to throw or grapple their counterparts were on breaks, drinking water or catching their breath. Although they did stare, she could see the searching, apprehensive glances they threw at the Navy personnel.

Jasmine must have noticed her watching as she leaned forward a little. "I've talked with some of the Navy officers; they're not as hard on the Marines as they have been the past few months. A lot of my medical staff have put the brakes on too."

Vivian huffed.

"They've patched those Marines up, you know they love them."

Jasmine smiled a little and pushed her glasses back up her nose.

"They sure do," she shrugged, "at least they're not brawling in the compounds or slinging insults in the mess halls."

"It's a truce, not peace," Vivian sighed, "I need to show them the Marines aren't psychopaths."

"Did you think getting punched in the face by them would do the trick?" Jasmine asked flatly.

"You know, I sort of did."

Vivian rose to her feet with some difficulty due to the weight of her armor. She marched over to a group of Marines who were resting. One of them, PFC Austin, with a young, handsome face and sparkling hazel eyes, was just getting up. "Austin," she hailed. He saluted and she saluted back. "Want to spar?"

"You sure, skipper?" he asked with a confident smile. He adopted a boxing pose and threw a few punches into the air. "No offense, I think I'm a little better than you."

"And I'm better than I was yesterday," Vivian said. "What'll it be?"

"How bout' a free-for-all, skip?"

"Sounds good," Vivian grinned menacingly, then took off her helmet and threw it into his chest. As he recoiled, she darted forward, grabbed his arm, and wrenched him forward. Austin turned around after taking a few steps, snatched her arm, and pulled her close. He lifted her off her feet, then dove forward. Vivian landed hard on her back, the rear of the body armor saving her from harm. The Marine was trying to use his weight to his advantage, trying to loop one arm under one of her's and the other under a leg to pin her. To do so he needed to be higher, thus sacrificing some of his weight. As well, Vivian knew he needed one arm to prop himself while he tried to lock one of her limbs. When he did, Vivian shoved his arm hard, right in the soft underbelly of his elbow. Losing his balance, he fell over Vivian diagonally. Snatching the straps of his bandoleer, she kicked one leg up and pushed him to the side at the same time.

Rolling him onto his back, she straddled him and took her knife, still in the scabbard. When she tried to bring the sheathed blade toward his neck, he caught her wrist with both hands. Instead of putting her free hand on the pommel for extra weight, Vivian reached for his scabbard, yanked it from its armor mount, and pressed it against his neck. Austin's eyes popped with surprise, then he smiled.

"Got me."

"That was good," Vivian said as she dropped his scabbard, got off him, and stood up. She looked over at the gathered Navy personnel. All were smiled confidently and proudly, impressed and smug their commander, a swabbie in the Marine's eyes, was able to take one of the veterans down. They nodded and snickered, casting their self-satisfied glances towards the Marines who were near Vivian and Austin. Those Marines appeared somewhat embarrassed despite Austin's good attitude, and avoided the Navy's eyes.

But Vivian attached her scabbard back to her armor mount, leaned down, and extended her hand. For a moment, Austin eyed it, then he grinned wider than ever and took it. Once he was on his feet, he and Vivian shook hands then saluted. "Well done," she said to him.

"Trust me ma'am, I'm much better against the Covvies."

"I don't doubt that for a moment, Marine," Vivian said, patting him reassuringly on his shoulder. "I'm proud of how hard you and the other Marines are training."

"Thank you, ma'am," the young Marine said.

Looking back at her Navy personnel, Vivian could see their confused, startled expressions as they looked at her. Some of them looked a little embarrassed themselves and tried not to look at the Marines. Others calmed down and wore more even expressions. It was a slow start, but a start nonetheless, Vivian thought to herself.

Before she could continue, she heard some commotion on the other side of the field. Marines and Navy personnel began to peel away, hurrying in that direction. Soon, she was right behind them. While others began to jog, she just walked. In an instant, she had gone from trainee to commander. Adopting an authoritative tone, she would not bustle like one of the enlisted men; a commanding officer needed to appear calm, cool, and collected.

When she neared, she heard shouting. Some were anti-Navy jabs, while others were anti-Marine insults. Curses and cries of encouragement rose and fell in between the jeering. Pushing between the Marines and seamen, she reached the edge of the crowd. In the center were Steele and Carris.

* * *

Carris was on the periphery of the training Marines. She was not dressed in her armor, instead wearing normal fatigues and a standardized vest unit with webbing to carry the gear necessary for training. Wearing her armor would not give any of the Marines a chance in any of the hand-to-hand combat drills they were practicing.

She was growing used to the long periods outside of her armor. A few years earlier, it would have been an impossibility to stay out of it for more than a day or two. A Spartan always needed to be ready to act in case of a Covenant ambush or a new operation handed down the chain from NAVSPECWAR.

After readjusting some of the webbing on her vest, she looked up. Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing was showing a few of the Raiders some advanced drills. She smiled a little; she liked Swing. He was from an older breed of Marines she used to fight with during the early years of the war. Although she truly admired those who did not wear the mantle of Spartan, for they possessed no physical advancements beyond a few booster shots, there was a place in heart reserved for Swing's generation. Most of them were gone now, wiped out in the first few offensives of war. They fought with a particular intensity and courage, overcoming their own shock of fighting a genocidal alien state. Those who remained were leaders who were passing down their knowledge to the younger generations, who sorely needed as much information as possible. Marines like the 89th MEU were motivated types, crack line troops who were eager for action. They were not representative of the majority of UNSC personnel, however. Most were draftees, conscripted the moment they came of age. Others were prisoners, offered their freedom if they served, those who were mustered out from earlier war periods, and Marines from the middle generation who were beaten time and again. Their morale in particular was very low and it could affect the younger waves of recruits coming in out of basic training.

Having someone like Swing around was good for rookies and old hands alike. Although she had not told him she was a Spartan, Carris assumed he knew. Marines who participated in special operations capacities had a tendency to work in conjunction with Spartan operatives and tactical teams. ONI made sure they did not blab to other units about the Spartans, but those Marines knew they existed and held them in high regard. Swing made use of her training and experience, and treated her like an assistant when he was instructing the men.

At that moment, he waved her over and she joined them in the middle of his lesson.

"...we can show you as many different martial arts disciplines as possible, but you have to remember in the thick of a battle, you're not going to be able to drop your rifle and adopt a pose. Covvies don't fight like us, and fighting like them is something a bit out of capabilities. But when you find yourself trading blow-for-blow with one of the freaks, you can't rely on one discipline on the other. You have to mix'em up, use what you know, and fight with everything you have."

He reached up and clapped a heavy hand on Carris's shoulders. "Now, the damn lot of you, ain't got a cunt-hair's chance in hell of beating this Petty Officer. But, you can learn something from having your ass beat over and over again. So, do I have any volunteers who want to try and take this soldier on?"

Carris smiled kindly at the Marines in front of her; she was not close with them like she was with the squad. But she knew their faces and some of their names, and they all knew her very well from her distinctive armor and fighting prowess. Smiling shyly and chuckling nervously, they looked at each other and back at her. She just looked at her boots, still smiling, knowing none of them wanted to try her.

"I'll give it a go."

Looking up, Steele walked forward, dressed in full armor save for his helmet, which was missing. His thick blonde hair was swept to the side by the warm, lazy breeze that occasionally rose and fell in the training yard.

"Good, Corporal," Swing said, waving him over.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Master-Guns?" Carris asked.

"Of course; scout snipers should be trained hard in hand-to-hand. They never when some Jackal will come up behind them and try to fucking strangle them to death. Ain't that right, Corporal?"

"Hasn't happened to me yet, Master Gunnery Sergeant, but it's been close," Steele said.

Carris and Steele's blue eyes locked for a moment across the few feet in between them. As Swing stepped back to let the fight begin, Carris slowly shook her head. Steele did not respond by word or movement. When he raised his fists, he offered only a cheeky grin.

It was one Carris often found endearing. That kind of smirk might have appeared foolhardy and aloof, but she knew it was warm and sweet. It was just the way he smiled and she doubted few beyond their close-knit squad knew that. Each time he showed it, she felt better for seeing it. But at that moment, she felt angry and the smile only heightened her growing animosity.

"Go!" Swing shouted.

Steele came forward and swung his fist. Carris blocked it with her forearm, grabbed his face with her hand, put all her strength into her arm, and shoved him back. Steele was taken off his feet and fell onto his back as if he was hit by a car. Around them, there was a collective, "ooh!' from the Marines. Even Swing was surprised and whistled as he looked down at Steele. "Damn, son. What was that? You last for a whole...millisecond I think."

"Fuck you," Steele coughed as he found his breath.

"Fuck you, what?"

"Fuck you, sir."

"That's more like it," Swing grunted. "On your feet, Marine, let's see if you can last for a whole _two _milliseconds."

With a great deal of effort, Steele rose up; he looked like a groggy man who just got out of bed. After a moment, he came at Carris again. He swung and she stepped back; when he jabbed, she sidestepped it. Turning as she did, she caught the back of his armor's straps, stuck her foot out in front of him, and tripped him. Controlling his fall, she made sure he landed hard. When he did, the air went out of him and he sucked for air.

Swing shook his head. "Well, you made it to _five _milliseconds, that was far better than I was expecting you little runt. Look at you, you hardly look like a Marine." Swing crouched in front of Steele, grabbed a clump of his hair, and pulled up the sniper's head. "What's this shit on your head? You're prettier than some of the women I fucked."

"Trying to look my best, sir," Steele replied once he regained his breath. His voice was strained as he tried to mask the pain Swing was causing him.

A crowd was beginning to gather around them. At first, there were only Marines, but eventually, there were Navy seamen there too. The drill instructor brought him back on his feet by his hair then turned him around to face Carris.

"Try again. This time, act like a Marine."

Swing stepped back. Steele bounced on his feet a little, winding his arms to limber up, then charged. Carris deftly blocked several of his punches and remained on the defense. He was striking quickly but accurately; he was maintaining control so as not to leave himself open for a counter.

"C'mon, take her down, Steele!"

"Show her what Marines are made of, boy-o!"

"Don't listen to them Petty Officer, show'em just what a Navy woman can do!"

"Marines ain't got shit on you, Petty Officer!"

"Fuck off home, swabbie!"

"Tear that Marine's head off!"

Steele threw a punch, and another, and another. Carris then took a step back just as he threw a fourth. His fist did not hit her raised forearm, and he ended up lunging forward. Swinging her opposite arm forward like a wrecking ball, her fist collided in his gut. Steele's eyes popped, the wind was knocked out of him for a third time, and he immediately fell onto his hands and knees. After a few gasps, he vomited; he had not eaten, so it was just bright yellow bile.

As he sputtered, the Navy personnel jeered and yelled insults. Marines supplied encouragement. Swing walked over, folding his arms across his chest and shaking his head.

"You can shoot straight, devil dog, but you can't even land a real hit. I've had bowel movements that kicked my ass more than you ever could. You're a disgrace."

"Yes sir," Steele hacked, "a disgrace, sir."

The sniper got back up, holding his gut. "I've lied, I've played dirty, I've broken every rule in the book. I know who I am, I don't need you telling me, sir." When he spoke, he didn't look at Swing, but maintained a steely gaze with Carris. She just furrowed her brow and narrowed her eyes.

"Oh, do you now?" Swing asked sarcastically. "Fine, then I won't _tell _you. Petty Officer, _show _him."

"Master Gunnery Sergeant!"

Before Carris could act, she looked over. Frost, Moser, and Grant were standing at the front of the crowd. He gestured for the other to stay put while he approached. "Sir, these two are from my squad. Not everyone's squared away, I don't think they should be fighting like this."

"Oh, we got ourselves a little lover's quarrel, huh?"

"No!" Carris and Steele shouted in unison. Swing's expression turned fiery as he looked at them.

"No what!?"

"No, sir!" they cried together.

"That's goddamn right, no-sir!" Swing turned around and poked Frost really hard in the shoulder. "You ain't in charge of this drill, Gunny, now get your ass back in line!"

Frost groaned, ran a hand down his face, but obeyed. Swing pointed at Carris. "Why aren't you caving his head in!?"

Carris rushed Steele. He planted his feet and raised his arms to block. But she swarmed him, undercutting his raised arms and striking him several times in the sides. Each time, he grunted in pain as he tried to back up. When he swung, she sidestepped, recoiled, or duck. He did not land one blow. Marines hollered advice and encouragement to the sniper while the seamen heaped Carris with praise.

Eventually, Carris broke his block, forcing his arms down. She grabbed him, twisted one of her legs around him, and forced him into a painful kneeling position. Looping her right arm under his left, she held it to the ground so he was angled.

"Yield," she growled.

"No," he said back through gritted teeth.

"Do you want me to break your arm?"

"You can break every bone in my body if you want to, love."

"Do _not _call me that."

"Why not, love?"

Carris growled, broke the lock, and picked him off his feet by his collar.

"What is your problem?" she asked him, his face merely a few inches from her own.

"You are," he whispered.

"Are you trying to spite me?"

"I'm trying to talk to you."

"I don't want to talk to you."

"I know, so I'm getting my ass kicked so I can hear your voice for a change." Suddenly, she felt his hand on her shoulder. "I miss talking to you."

Carris's glare softened for a moment, but only just. Gritting her teeth, she threw him to the ground hard. He recovered surprisingly quickly and began to get up. Instead of getting into a fighting stance, he began to hold up a hand. "Carris, I'm sorry."

"So am I!" she snarled. "Sorry I protected you!"

Just as he rose up, she struck him in the midsection. When she did, she felt something crunch against her fist. Steele gasped, fell onto the ground, let out a cry of pain she'd never heard before, and clutched his chest.

"That's enough!"  
It was Captain Waters. She was beside Steele in a moment, along with Frost, Moser, and Grant. Swing stepped into view and pushed Carris back a few steps.

"Stand down, Petty Officer," he said, then crouched beside Steele. After a moment, he waved his hand. "Corpsman up!"

Captain Waters looked over her shoulder.

"Jasmine! Get over here!"

It wasn't long before two Corpsmen and Dr. Ebrahimi arrived. The others, save Frost, parted from Steele and began removing his armor. Soon, they erected a stretcher from their medical kit, placed Steele on it, and hurried off the track. Swing and Waters ordered the Raiders and gathered seamen to disperse.

Carris did not watch them go and was unaware of the many wary, surprised glanced they gave her. She was busy looking at her fist; her bare knuckles were brown.

* * *

**Word Count: **6,641

**Page Count (Google Docs): **16

**Original Font: **PT Serif

**Original Line Spacing: **1.5

**Author's Note: **Hey, hey Viv. That force that guided you and Frost together? Yeah, that was me. Me and a little bit of that good ol' magical-realism!

This was more fun to write than the last chapter. I like building up the Port and describing the gathering war effort, as well as the hand-to-hand segments. The fight between Carris and Steele was my favorite part, but a lot of the dialogue between Vivian, Frost, and Jasmine takes the cake too. Swing is still a joy to write with. Anyways, hope you enjoyed it. I'm doing a little more quantifying, as you can see above, to keep myself organized and give myself some stats to review going forward, as well as provide some transparency for readers to see some of the stylistic choices I make, considering you don't get to see the actual pages I write. Everything on FFN gets super stretched out, ruining the formatting, strategic spacing and breaking, that I add for effect and to denote scene changes, tonal changes, and the like. It all gets lost with FFN, which is a bummer because I try to make my pages look like a page right out from a novel, from spacing and font choice and justification. Ah well.

**Comment Responses: **

**Ctrl-Dalt-Delete: **Well, that's super reassuring. I've seen media-depcitions of drill instructors and from research, some depictions are more accurate than others. Thankfully, there's a lot of documentaries actually made by the USMC available online that show what it's like for drill instructors to go to school and how they teach recruits, so I was able to draw from those too. But more than anything, I wanted Swing to have a really crafty way of talking, a sort of verbal-jabbing, who easily gets under a Marine's skin, rather than just somebody who screams and swears all day long. He does scream and swear, but not all the time, and that was the key.

You can expect to see Swing become a rather prevailing force in the story ahead. And thanks!

**MightBeGone: **Yeah, it used to come to me then a lot too. Honestly, sometimes my motivation to write comes just before I turn in for the night, which is always a pain in the side. But I try to reserve it for the next day. My biggest motivation is having the time to read, which means getting up early; the more time I have for writing, the more motivated I am. If I get up at say, ten-thirty in the morning, I'm not as motivated because I lost a good three to four hours of writing time.

And hey, I never said no Starris. Don't lose hope just yet, my man.

**The angels in the sky: **My first reaction is to say, 'well I love you so that evens things out,' but I'll just say thank you a whole bunch instead. Glad you enjoy it.

**TheShadeOps: **Yep, you'll see that a bit more in the coming chapters, some more tangible results than here, where you get more of a snippet.

I'll do my best, my friend! Thank you!


	14. Chapter 14: Orders

Chapter 14: Orders

* * *

Frost checked the number beside the door and then walked into the ward. Most of the cots running down either side of the long room were empty. At the far right corner, he saw a fold-able curtain in front of the final bed. Only the metal bars at the end were visible as well as a clipboard attached to the top bar. In front was Jasmine, tapping on a data pad.

Walking briskly down the ward, he did his best to just look forward. Although the beds were empty, he spent enough time in hospitals to be wary of them. Too many times after the action he was among hundreds, sometimes thousands of wounded Marines. Men who lost arms and legs, feet and hands, who had their stomachs torn by shrapnel and third degree plasma burns over half their bodies. Sometimes, Marines were struck by so many plasma bolts their armor melted and fused to their flesh. To hear medical technicians peeling off smoldering, blackened armor and layers of skin made a man's gut curdle, the scent of burned flesh and metal brought on waves of nausea, and the pain screams of a young soldier who felt it all despite being pumped with medicine was more than a harden warrior could take. In flashes, he could see all those poor Marines in the beds, on the floor, and on stretchers. Writhing, wailing, sobbing, calling for friends and family members, they created a trembling mass which seemed to shake the entire ward.

He was not sure which was more terrifying; carrying such memories, or knowing he was going to see such scenes a hundred times over before the war ended.

Jasmine tucked her data pad into the pocket on the inside of her white lab coat. She turned and faced him.

"How's he doing?" he asked, pausing just before coming around the curtain. Her expression was worried, but she offered a kind little smile.

"Stable. He's asleep."

She plucked the clipboard from its mount and turned over the top sheet. Underneath were several x-ray captures. These she pulled out and handed to Frost. Someone took the time to circle the damage on the close-up images. Jasmine tapped the sheets with her fingers.

"His fifth, sixth, and seventh ribs are cracked. The seventh took the most damage; it nearly broke. His eighth rib down, his first false rib, that's cracked too. Nothing split into pieces or is damaged in a way that threatens to pierce his lungs, so he could breathe normally."

Jasmine leafed through the clipboard again and pulled out some photographs. The area around the point of impact was a large brown-maroon blotch. In the center were jagged marks. "This is the external damage. Very heavy bruising with broken skin along these points."

"These points," Frost said in a low tone after clearing his throat, "were those her knuckles?"

"Yes. Unfortunately because of his ribs, we can't put a lot of pressure on that area. Exercise and compression are out of the question until the ribs heal naturally. Painkillers are enough to deal with pain."

Frost could not look at the photos or black-blue x-ray images any longer. He handed them back and Jasmine slid these back under the clip. She placed the board back on its mount and folded her hands in front of her. "Overall, it's very manageable but he's going to be out of action for at least a month. Depending on his recovery, it might be two."

It was like being punched in the gut. Frost could not imagine going into the incoming operation with his friend. To go without his most trusted Marine and capable marksman into battle was like going to a dinner party without clothes. It was not just about combat either. When the going became tough, he could always turn to Steele and find respite. The scout sniper was already with a crude joke or sarcastic quip about whatever hellish situation they were in. Regardless of how bad it got, one could always count on Steele for that kind of behavior. It made the darker, dangerous times all the more bearable. When a Marine could look to his right and see another laughing in the face of adversity, it made him feel invincible. For years, the entire squad relied on Steele for that comedic bravado. Without him, morale was going to sink.

As his mind raced, he suddenly felt overwhelmed. He was going to be moving up the chain of command, working on the platoon or even company level. With his advancement and Steele's wounding, the squad would be down both of its combat leaders. He did not doubt the fighting capabilities of fellow Marines like Bishop or Knight; despite their personal eccentricities, they could be counted on to lead the squad. But as tight-knight a band of Marines the 89th MEU was, he did not trust anyone else leading his friends into battle. Nobody knew them like or Steele did and would not be able to utilize their unique abilities. A new squad leader would get people killed. Even if a capable replacement was found, the squad was understrength without him or the scout sniper.

Jasmine must have sensed his mounting shock. Smiling, she took both of his hands in her's and squeezed.

"Just breathe, darling," she whispered to him a sweet voice. "You need to focus on _right now. _Steele is alive and is going to make a full recovery. It's just going to take some time."

"But he won't be able to get into the suck with us," Frost said back. His mouth moved but the words did come out. Making eye contact with her became impossible as he silently trailed off. "What're we gonna do? What am _I _gonna do? I can't go off and do this without him."

"Nate," Jasmine said softly, "right now. Steele's alive, he's escaped threatening injury, and he's going to be okay." She took a step closer. "Do you want to see him?"

Frost just nodded. Jasmine began walking backwards, gently pulling him by his hands as she did. They came around the curtain one step at a time. Steele was laying on his back and was dressed in a white hospital shirt. One arm was underneath the blue blanket, while the other was exposed. A long, thin tube ran between the soft skin below his elbow and into what looked like an IV bag, except the liquid inside was clear. This was the painkiller treatment. As well, there was a clamp on his finger and connected by a wire to a monitor machine hung a hook beside the IV bag. All of the reading on the screens suspended over his heart were normal; decent blood pressure and a perfect resting heart rate.

Out of his armor, he seemed so small. Frost sometimes forgot how skinny the man was. While he was not skin and bones, most of the other Marines in the 89th MEU were broad and muscular. While he did have a layer of muscle, he was not robust like the others were. Without extra layers of clothing and body armor, it didn't look like he had anything at all.

His thick blonde hair was pushed to one side, exposing the entirety of his face. Narrow and handsome, it was unsurprising why so many of the women fell so easily to his flirtations. Stubble was growing on his cheeks, complementing his mustache. He looked far more rugged.

Frost smiled a little.

"Is there a chair or stool? I'd like to sit with him for a while."

He felt Jasmine's hand on his shoulder.

"I'll stay with him. You should go check on your squad. I think after what happened before, this may be tough on them. They need leadership."

Frost wrinkled his nose and stood up straight.

"Marines are trained to adapt and overcome any situation. They can..." he trailed off. Jasmine was looking up at him, unimpressed. Looking at her for a moment, he eventually rubbed the back of his head. "...yeah, you're right."

Jasmine smiled pleasantly and pushed her glasses back up her nose. She stood up on the tips of her toes and kissed him on the cheek.

"He's in good hands. I'll catch up with you later."

"Thanks, Jas. If anything comes up-"

"I'll let you know."

Casting one final glance at Steele, he turned away and walked back down the ward. As the automatic door slid open, he stepped into the hall. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone leaning on the wall. Immediately, his brow furrowed and he gritted his teeth. Both hands curled into fists.

Turning sharply, he found Carris standing beside the door. Her hands were in her fatigue trouser pockets. Her head was hung so low her thick, black hair fell around her face, concealing it. Slowly, she stood up straight and pushed the locks from her face. Her crystalline blue eyes were glimmering.

"Is he...?" she faltered. "...did he? Will he...?"

"Why don't you go in there and see what you did to him?" Frost growled, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Carris took a nervous step back. It was the first time he'd ever seen her exhibit anything akin to anxiety or fear.

At that moment, seeing her shocked expression made him angrier.

Frost stepped closer. "Go on, see what you did."

"It was an accident."

"Wonder what condition he'd be in if it wasn't," Frost growled. "Aren't you supposed to be the best of the best? You're supposed to be the greatest soldier in this whole damn military. You're not supposed to make mistakes. Fuck-up's, washouts, and trainees make fucking mistakes. You're supposed to be in control."

Suddenly, her blue eyes flared.

"You may want to think twice about lecturing me. What do you call what happened back at the mining plant? Would you call that a mistake?"

Frost grunted, bowed his head slightly, and took a few steps back. Carris advanced, her own hands balling into fists. "Name one order I have not followed to the letter. Was there ever a time I hesitated and was unable to do my duty while I've been assigned to this ship? Or was there an instance in which I lost control and gunned down unarmed prisoners? Maybe, it wasn't a case of losing control. Maybe, the person whose supposed to make decisions is so _fucked up _in his head he doesn't know what's real anymore."

Carris paused and shook her head. "Chew me out all you want, lecture me all you want. You can even recommend me for punishment. But do not stand there and act like I'm the only one."

Frost broke their gaze for a moment. He squeezed his eyes shut. Thoughts in their millions coursed through his mind at the fraction of a second, yet those moments felt like eons.

Snowflakes began to fall and the air grew chilly. Standing in the frozen mud of the mining compound, he aimed down his sights at the prisoners. Each one of their faces, whether they appeared terrified, furious, or spiteful, infuriated him. He felt his eyebrows and mouth twitching, his breathing became ragged, and his hands began to shake. Before him, the prisoners became twisted shadows, figments of figures he killed so long ago. Refusing to pull the trigger in that very moment seemed like an impossibility. But that provided no excuse, no justification for anything he did. He knew it was wrong. What he did violated every single rule of warfare he was ever schooled in. Beyond those battlefield laws were every lesson he learned growing up. Each time his parents sat him and his sisters down, he paid attention and took whatever they said to heart. Do not hurt people. Do not lie. Do not steal. Do not cheat. Do not take what you do not need. Help those who need helping and protect those who need protecting. Do what you can to give something back to people, rather than take from them. Frost never needed a church or a pastor to teach him those lessons. He believed every word his parents said and took it to heart. Had those lessons served him? No, that was not the question. Did he remember those lessons?

Yes, but they were replaced by new lessons. He remembered getting his head shaved on the first day of boot camp, dressing fatigues that barely fit him, and standing in front of his rack while the drill instructor prowled up and down the two ranks of recruits. His wide-brimmed cap cast a shadow over his eyes. 'Listen up! However you have defined yourself up to this point does not matter anymore! Whatever nationality you identified as does not matter! Whatever color you thought your skin was does not matter! Whatever flag you stood up and saluted before does not matter! Whether you sucked dicks or fingered pussies does not matter! Everything you were taught before does not matter. Nothing about who you are or what you did or what you knew before now does not matter! Your parents and your teachers may have tried to tell you that you matter! They, were, wrong! You have not mattered for as long as you live until this very moment! You are going to become Marines or you will die trying! Do you know how you become Marines!? By killing, killing, killing! Repeat after me! Kill, kill, kill!'

From that day, Frost paid attention to the new lessons, the most important lessons of his life. That's what the drill instructor said and he believed every single word he said. Mount the bayonet, parry, thrust, and gore. The prone position is the most efficient position in which a Marine can fire his weapon upon the enemy. Some Marines went on to specialize in communications, demolitions, heavy weapons, engineering, or vehicle maintenance. But he was always a rifleman first. Army troopers got to sit around on whatever garrison detail they were ordered on so they could masturbate and give themselves commendation medals. Navy seamen were no longer called seamen: they were swabbies. Swabbies were weak and cowardly, as they were only able to engage the enemy behind the titnaium walls of a starship instead of engaging in the glory of ground warfare. The UNSC Air Force was a joke. There were no more national flags; the Marine only saluted the UNSC banner. Frost's brain was filled with countless acronyms, call signs, technical codes, and nicknames for even the most common aspects an individual encountered in their life. Above all, he was taught how to kill and the drill instructor told him he was going to do a lot of killing. By the time he graduated, he wanted his first kill so badly he was nearly drooling.

He blinked. Carris was glaring down at him. With her height, she towered over him. Looking down her nose, she appeared intimidating. Both eyes were angry and accusatory.

Eventually, she took a step back. "That's what I thought," was all Carris said. She turned on her heel and stormed down the hall.

Frost wiped his face and shook his head. Unsure of what to do with his anger, he whirled around and punched the wall as hard as he could. The shock reverted in his knuckles and traveled up his arm all the way to his shoulder. It hurt so bad he was forced to squint and grit his teeth just to manage it. Part of him wanted to scream and part of him just wanted to drop to the floor from fatigue. All at once, he felt furious and fatigued. If he kept hitting the concrete wall he would break every bone in his hand and arm. Scream, he wanted to scream so badly. He needed to do something with his hands. For the first time in his life, he wished a Covenant armada would attack so he would have something to shoot at. In the middle of battle, he did not have to think anymore. His body moved automatically and he could kill nearly indiscriminately. Shoot, stab, strangle, it did not matter, as long as he could combat the enemy instead of just sitting around training. In battle, he did not have to face the consequences of his actions.

Eventually, he just closed his eyes and let his head pressed against the wall. He did not want to go on another operation. The thought of leaving the safety of this world terrified him. Without his best friend, with his squad under-strength, he did not want to face the enemy. It would bring him no satisfaction to kill again. Just thinking about it was making him sick to his stomach. All he wanted to do was stay with Jasmine. When he was with her, everything seemed normal. When she smiled, blushed, pushed her glasses back up her nose, brushed her hair behind her ears, or whispered into his ear, he felt happy. Life seemed like it could continue and he no longer had to prove himself to himself, or to the UNSC, or anyone, to those nameless, faceless people he cared about. He did not even know why their opinions and perceptions of him matter so much. Why did he want their approval? Throughout his youth he wanted to feel accepted by these people who he did not know and did not matter to him. Why did he want them in his life when they did not want him? Why did it all matter? It was a trap, it was all a trap, and it was one he sprang on himself. In the miasma of his mind, he thought his way into a corner. He made himself small and insignificant, forcing him to scramble to find acceptance. Was that it? It had to be it.

Frost slowly reached up and held the sides of his head. He could not process his thoughts anymore. They were moving too quickly and there were far too many. It was like having worms crawling throughout his skull. Worms steadily feasting on his brain, ants biting and stinging and tunneling. Soon he would have no mind, he would just be an empty shell. A robot who could only follow orders and take lives. Would that be an easier existence to grapple with? One in which he possessed no conscience, no remorse, and no love?

"Turn around, Marine."

Slowly, Frost stood up straight and turned around. Standing before him was Major Royce, who had not removed his battle dress uniform. He was still holding his rifle as well. Around his neck was an olive drab scarf. Black stubble coated his narrow, pale face.

Royce looked him up and down. "Clean your face, Gunnery Sergeant."

"Sir?"

"Get those tears off your face."

Frost reached up and felt his cheek. They were moist. Quickly, he wiped his eyes and face on the sleeves of his fatigue jacket. When he finished, Royce nodded, turned, and began walking down the hall. Frost fell in step with him.

Royce held out a packet of cigarettes.

"We're in the infirmary, sir."

"Mm, must have forgotten," Royce said, tucking them back into a pouch on his rig. "How's your man?"

"Stable. He'll make a full recovery but it'll take some time."

"Won't be coming into the shit with us, then."

"Yes, sir."

"Too bad. It's going to be real hairy out there. Good fighting ahead."

"Yes, sir."

Frost was looking straight ahead, but he could feel Royce looking at him. It was like having someone bore a hole into his head.

"Steele got demoted. There's a chance he might get promoted again but I wouldn't hold your breath. You, on the other hand, you'll be moving up. Time to start acting like a Gunnery Sergeant."

"Yes, sir," Frost said, quieter this time.

"Of course, for organizational reasons, I need you to embed with a particular squad. How's Alpha White One suit you?"

It was the current designation for his squad. Frost looked over at his new commanding officer in disbelief. Royce betrayed no emotion, appearing soldierly and business-like.

"That'd suit me just fine, sir, thank you."

"Battlefield promotions and commissions tend to take Marines away from their fellow leathernecks. Brass thinks those men won't respect his authority or his leaders. I think the brass is full of shit and we don't have the luxury to move personnel around like it's a game of fucking chess. So for now, I need you running that squad."

"Yes, sir."

"Now get the fuck out of my sight and unfuck your squad most ricky-tick." Royce quickened his pace and continued walking down the hall. He adjusted the strap of his rifle on his shoulder. "There's going to be a lot of killing ahead of us, Marine. Real fucking killing fields. Raiders are going to be up on front when it goes down."

Frost was puzzled. He took a few steps forward.

"Sir, we're only going to be a diversionary force. Heavy fighting, but not like what the main assault force will be encountering."

Royce stopped. For a moment, he stood as still as a statue. When he looked over his shoulder, he was smiling.

"Yeah, you're right," he said in a light tone. Frost could detect the disbelief in his voice. "Probably going to be a walk in the park, Marine."

###

By the time Frost found his squad in the barracks, Carris was already back. Everyone was out of their battle dress uniforms or at least halfway out. They were dirty, sweaty, and smelly, but nobody really seemed to mind. Most of their gear was spread across the floor; grass and dirt caked onto their boots was everywhere.

Carris was sitting at the table with a steaming coffee mug in her hand. Grant was sitting beside her with an arm around her shoulders.

"It was an accident, C. Accidents happen."

"Even Marines make mistakes," Moser said. He was standing beside and placed his hand on his shoulder. When she didn't say anything, he crouched down beside her. "One time in basic, we needed to practice live grenade drills. But the range was full up that day; there were just so many recruits there the new base simply couldn't accommodate us. So the drill instructor drove our platoon out into the fields beyond the base and we found this berm. We crouched behind it and lobbed grenades forward into this field. You probably never knew this about Grant, but when he was still a boot, he had butter fingers."

"C'mon man, not this story."

The others gathered around Grant and patted him on the back or shoulders. They grinned and laughed, and Grant covered his face. Moser laughed.

"So we line up to throw another bunch of grenades. We rear are arms back, and then I hear, 'oh shit.' I look over and Grant is standing there looking at his empty hands. I looked down the slope and saw his grenade rolling down. The drill instructor shouted, 'cover!' But the thing was, we already pulled the pins on our grenades and were cooking them. So what do we do? We all turn around, throw our grenades behind us, and rush over the berm. We dove down and the grenades all went off."

"That drill instructor nearly kicked him out of boot," Knight said, folding his arms across his chest and shaking his head. "Oh, he was super fucking pisser. 'Private Grant, you are a disgrace to the United Nations Space Command Marine Corps! If we weren't losing a million people every single day, I'd send your ass back to whatever fucking hovel you call home in a box!' That was the best chewing out I ever saw."

"And from that day forward!" Bishop said as if he was the announcer on a game show. He grabbed Grant's shoulders and shook him heavily. "Private First Class Grant never ever fumbled another grenade!"

"Fuck you guys," Grant muttered, shoving him away.

But the story made Carris smile. It was weak and fatigued, but nonetheless it was still a smile. After taking a sip of coffee, she looked up at Frost. Everyone followed her gaze. Their own grins faded.

"He's stable," he said. Frost slowly looked at Carris. The others were not looking at her and she freely gazed back resentfully. Both eyebrows became knitted and her lips pursed. To not return the same expression came with great restraint. Eventually, he closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. "Carris, we do make mistakes. Don't get hung up on it, we've got other things to worry about it."

Frost did not mean a single word of it. Carris probably knew that, judging from her unchanged expression. But the rest of the squad seem reassured. It was what they needed to hear. A dispute between their squad leader and one of their mates would only decimate their morale.

Clearing his throat, Frost stood up straight. "I'm in charge until further notice. You're stuck with me for a while long."

Just as everyone began smiling and high-fiving each other, he held up his hand. "But we're Marines. It's time to focus because we're about to get in the fucking such. Marines leave a messy battlefield but they do not act like fucking children coming home from school! On your feet, Marines! Clean this shit up you have thirty seconds, move, move, move!"

Before he even finished, the squad scrambled to pick up their gear. They hustled around, bumped into each other, and tried to carry as much as they could. Frost stepped aside so they could run through the door. "Double time you fucking devil dogs, move it! Langley if you don't move your scrawny ass you'll be sweeping this up with that skinny Croat! You ain't in the Air Force anymore, you're a goddamn Marine! Haul ass!"

When the squad finally cleared out and stampeded down the hall, Frost slowly looked back at Carris. She was still glaring at him. "Get moving, Petty Officer Third Class Carris."

Carris got to her feet and began to follow the others. Just before she went through the door, Frost shot his arm in front of her and grasped the frame. Slowly, she looked down at him. "Are you going to be able to follow my orders?"

"Yes, Gunnery Sergeant."

"Police your gear. Once you're finished, you're going to the infirmary and you will stay with him."

"I-"

"You said you were going to follow orders. I just gave you one. Do it."

"Yes, Gunnery Sergeant," was all she managed to say before turning around.

* * *

The training fields were cleared of all personnel. Even the firing ranges were empty. Vivian sat on the grassy center of one of the tracks. Sitting crossed legged, she spread out a moderately sized sheet of canvas in front of her. She placed her MA5B assault rifle on it.

Undoing the strap of her helmet, she placed it to the side and took her hair out of its bun. Shaking her head, her matted dirty blonde hair fell down to her neck. Glad to be free of both, she sighed loudly. Despite all the installments for ventilation, the standard Marine helmet trapped too much heat.

Wiping her brow, she took a brief sip from her canteen. Then, she set about dismantling the weapon system in front of her. She took out the empty magazine and placed it on the corner of the tarp. Then, she unscrewed the barrel and slid out, followed by the flashlight attachment underneath. When it was entirely disassembled in front of her, she meticulously cleaned every piece with a soft cloth and oil. It was a time consuming process but she did not mind. In fact, she rather enjoyed the slow nature of the task. Carefully wiping it of dust, then adding oil, wiping it down, blowing on it, reapplying, and then wiping it for a final time proved to be a simple yet elegant ritual. She even went the extra step of tweaking the electronics suite, running a debugging program provided by the armory technicians to upgrade the program for faster, more accurate readouts. Once she finished, she raised her watch. It possessed a stopwatch feature which she promptly activated. As fast as she could, she began to reassemble the weapon.

During the first few rounds, her hands felt sluggish. Even after all of the weapon drills she practiced under Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing, she did not feel surefooted enough. The Marines were able to strip their weapons and piece them back together under a minute. Some moved so fast they could perform the task under thirty seconds. Each time she finished, she shook her head at the readout on her watch: two minutes and fifteen seconds, two minutes and three seconds, one minute and thirty seven seconds, and one minute and twenty seconds. Then she practiced a reverse drill, disassembling the MA5B as fast as possible before piecing it back together again.

But as she completed a fifth round, and then a sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth, she could feel herself speeding up. Her senses became elevated, her motions became faster and accurate.

After completing her tenth, she was about to reset when a shadow loomed over her. Vivian looked up and saw Frost standing beside her, his rifle slung over his shoulder. With the sun at his back, he looked more like a shadow and she could not see his upper face. All she could see was a small, amused smile.

"The MA5 Individual Combat Weapon System is an air-cooled, gas-operated, magazine-fed, bullpup rifle designed for automatic fire," he said in a quick, educated tone. "Standard issue ammunition consists of the M118 Seven-point-Six-Two Full Metal Jacket Armor-Piercing cartridge, capable of dispatching an enemy alien designation, 'Elite,' in forty-five rounds. However, the MA5 ICWS family of weapons has the advantage of utilizing both shredder and hollow point cartridges as well."

Frost walked around and sat cross-legged on the opposite side of the tarp. His gray-blue eyes were alight. "The MA5B ICWS variant is designed for close quarters battle due to its increased rate of fire and larger magazine consisting of sixty rounds." He paused for a moment. "Isn't that it? That's right out of the manual, right?"

"As far as I can remember," Vivian said. "How is he?"

"He'll be fine. Won't be ready in time for jump off."

"Well, I'll ask Jasmine if she can perform a miracle," Vivian said, offering a smile. Frost blinked for a moment, then smiled and nodded.

Vivian decided not to time herself and began to piece her rifle back together slowly. Across from her, he set his own down and began to disassemble it. It was hard not to look up at him. For a time, she stared at him, the man she hated, the man who killed her friends. How could she not? Years and years, she imagined him, this monster, this butcher of young women, a real Jack the Ripper. Instead, the killer was just another Marine following orders. In front of her was no monster, just a man, a soldier, putting his rifle back together.

Although she could not say she knew him well, or at at all admittedly, she could see his face was troubled.

Vivian set her rifle down and sat back, digging her fingers into the grassy ground to hold herself up. "So, how come you're out here sitting with me when you could be banging my best friend?"

Frost's head snapped up. He looked more surprised than angry. Vivian laughed a little. "Don't even act like it's a secret. _Everyone _knows."

"Well, she's busy," Frost said, clearly embarrassed as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Working. You know. You really don't mind that she and I...well..."

"You make her happy. That's good enough for me. Hurt her and I'll put a bullet in your head."

Frost chuckled.

"That's fair."

"What's on your mind?"

Frost shrugged a little. He shook his head. But eventually, he looked up; he seemed sad.

"When they told you were going to become the skipper of this whole task force, were you scared?"

Vivian stared at him for a few moments. She remembered standing there with Travers and the other officers from the ships. It was on the very day Oswald was sentenced to a lengthy prison term. Reach was so cold, she remembered. When Travers told her, it was like being pierced by a sword, but rather than a quick blow, it bore slowly into her heart.

She brushed a lock of loose hair from her face, shrugged slightly, and looked away. "You'd think a young Navy Commander fresh out of OCS would relish the opportunity to become a captain. I wanted _in_ so badly, I wanted to be on the bridge of a UNSC Navy starship, and fight as hard as I could. All of a sudden there it was, what I wanted so much, and I almost said no. It dawned on me what leadership meant. All the people depending on me to make the right decisions just made itself apparent at that very moment. Not just one ship, but several ships, tens of thousands of lives to think about. I almost said no."

Frost finished taking his weapon apart.

"But you said yes."

"I didn't. It was out of my hands. Travers said I was getting promoted and I was taking over. It was not a choice."

"Shit."

"Shit, indeed," Vivian said, huffing a little laugh. "But you know what, I would have said yes anyways. In a way, whether he gave me the choice, there was no choice. You don't have choices as a leader; you make decisions. Plan all you want, prepare all you want, but at the end of the day, when we start trading fire with the Covvies, a leader has to make a decision. If I'm not going to make them, who is?"

Vivian leaned forward and rested her hands on her knees. "You've been leading a squad for nearly two years. You must know what I'm talking about."

"I do, but things are different now. It was easier before. Teo died and it was just, you know, a snap thing. Hayes made me a sergeant and I was in command of the squad in the middle of a battle. There was no time to think, and then we were off on missions. Those early days felt like a whirlwind sometimes, and only _now _have we had time to really sit and face what's happened. We're going into another storm and I suddenly feel like I'm not as capable, not in control. Maybe it was because of what happened to Sanchez, I don't know."

Frost leaned forward as well, ran his hands through his thick brown hair, and shook his head quickly. "Feel like I'm making all the wrong decisions."

"There are no wrong or right decisions. One way or another, somebody loses out, or somebody gets killed. If you make one and somehow things turn out alright, that's luck. We'd like to chalk it up to skill or experience, but it's just plain luck. But you must make decisions; if you don't, a lot of people are going to die."

"I know."

"The decisions we have to make are the _best _possible ones; it doesn't mean they're good ones. Most of the time, the orders we could possibly give are just bad, bad, bad. Two years in, I've seen the crew of the _I'm Alone _do what they've been ordered to do. So many of these young Navy men and women are younger than me. Can you believe it? They're well trained, eager, and capable. All they need is someone to give them an order. Your Marines are the same way. Just give them the order and they'll do it. It's up to you to figure out which one is the best one to make, and you have to live with it."

"Been living with a lot of things, skipper."

"We all are. We're being asked to do what no young warriors have ever been asked to do; preserve their species from extinction. If we fail, we don't make concessions or pay reparations. We all die."

Frost nodded and looked down at his boots. It was as if he was bowing his head in prayer. Vivian sighed, then tapped the key on her watch. "What's the deadliest weapon in the whole galaxy, Gunnery Sergeant Frost?"

Slowly, he looked up at her.

"A Marine and his rifle."

"What do you call that pile of shit in front of you?" she asked, pointing at the disassembled MA5B. "What is that, Gunny? Scrap metal?"

"No ma'am, it's an MA5B Individual Combat Weapon System."

"What are you going to do with that MA5B assault rifle, then? Chuck those pieces at a Grunt's head."

"No, ma'am," Frost replied, smiling.

"Tell me what you're gonna do with it."

"Ma'am, I'm going to assemble this rifle faster than a motherfucker and shoot some aliens."

Vivian started the timer.

* * *

**Word Count: **6,185

**Pages (Google Docs): **15

**Original Font: **PT Serif

**Original Font Size: **11

**Original Line Spacing: **1.5

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the long wait folks. I hit a wall and I really wasn't able to focus or complete much writing. I do apologize for that. But I found my stride again and I'll be working on _I'm Alone _next week to finally catch up. I will try to post three chapters next week or I will **die trying. **And hey, if you're feeling charitable, why don't you mosy over to my other story, _Marsh Silas: Inquisitor_. I'm really proud of the last few chapters and the story overall, so if you gave it a look-see that would be some welcomed support.

**Comment Responses: **

**TheCarlosInferno: **Yes, I'm aware she killed her instructor although he wasn't killed by a punch. It was the result of a pin reversal and a throw, which severed his fifth and sixth cervical vertebrae, causing instant death. I interpreted this scene and showed it in Carris's introductory chapter, Chapter 4: Armor.

**MightBeGone: **No, you get actual brownies. Yep, I like the direction so far, the interactions are more realistic and the dynamics are changing. Whereas once the squad had unity there is disharmony, and Vivian and Frost are finding common ground. Thanks for reading and commenting.

**Dairene: **The SPARTAN-II Program is very hard to reconcile. On the one hand, it produced a new breed of special operations forces which contributed heavily to war effort and set in motion a new branch of the UNSC military. Without the Spartans, humanity would have lost the war. However, the means in which the children were abducted, replaced, and indoctrinated violates every law in the book and is generally immoral. Rather than being treated like people, they were treated like science experiments. Yet, the handlers did empower them and elevate their self-perceptions as superhuman soldiers, and I think on some level, many of the surviving Spartan II's consider it more of an uplifting or opportunity. Does that justify or change anything objectively? No. As for General Amsterdam, she's rough around the edges, as evidenced in the previous story of her treatment of the security guard smuggler. But that was an 'in-the-family' scenario, whereas the total situation was far more delicate, and I think that's when Amsterdam stops being a field commander and acts like a general who understands and believes in military law. Hayes and Holst, well, there's always been differences and you'll certainly see some of that in the future. Thanks for reading and commenting.


	15. Chapter 15: The Journey

**ANNOUNCEMENT**

**Hey everybody, I'm here to say a couple things before the chapter. Firstly, I apologize I was not able to deliver three chapters this week. I got slammed with a ton of work this week and have had extremely limited time to write. With summer approaching, I am going to have less time on my hands, but I'll be finishing one of my off-site projects soon so I'll have more time each week to work on **_**I'm Alone **_**and **_**Marsh Silas. **_**Thanks very much for your patience with me, it means a lot. **

**Secondly, I know a couple people are waiting for me to respond to PM's and forum posts. Sorry for the wait, but I've really got to knuckle down and write, so it might be a little longer before I can get back to you. Thanks for your patience. **

**Thirdly, many of you know Fail4Fun. If you don't, she's a very dear friend of mine who has done fanart for **_**I'm Alone **_**before. She's even going to be providing cover art and illustrations for **_**Marsh Silas! **_

**Fail4Fun is an avid fan of the game **_**Stardew Valley**_**, as I am. She got me hooked on it. She's recently launched the first strip of a webcomic/fan-comic called **_**Dropping Stars**_**, following her original character in her own take of the game's story. Although you may not know, Fail4Fun has provided a great deal of help to me over the past couple of years. Not only has she taken time to create wonderful fanart, she's always been there for me to bounce ideas off of, provide constructive feedback, and has often been up chatting with me in the long hours of the night while I try to write. She has been immensely supportive and is a real source of inspiration, and she's even provided me with a lot of encouragement that's helped me steer **_**I'm Alone **_**on its current course.**

**It would mean a lot to me if you guys and gals would head over to her page on DeviantArt and check it out. Search for Fail4Fun, you'll find her, and if you have trouble, there's a step-by-step guide on my forum, Vox-Taps, to get to her page. It won't take that much time and hey, if you like **_**Stardew Valley **_**or just like socially awkward introverts (like myself) then it just might be your cup of tea. Even if you're not interested, still, mosey over, check out the fanart she's done, and maybe leave a comment or thank you for all she's done to help me and this story. **

**That's about it. Sorry for the wait guys, I'm trying to get back on track. I'll try to fix things by next weekend. Thanks.**

* * *

Chapter 15: The Journey

* * *

Jasmine finished filing another report and closed the typing tool on her data pad. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of her nose to alleviate the minor irritation caused by her eyeglasses. After rubbing the spot for a few moments, she lowered her hand and fixed her eyeglasses. Her fingers shifted to her temples and she massaged the skin. Finally, frustrated, she took off her eyeglasses and examined them. It would not be the first time she got new military-issue prescription spectacles only to have the sizing incorrect. Glasses which were improperly sized were too tight on her temples and the sides of her head. Wearing them for too long would result in headaches, so she made a mental note to schedule an appointment with the ophthalmologist's assistant to have them resized.

Taking them off, folding them, and tucking them into the front pocket of her white lab coat, she sat back and looked at Steele. He was still sleeping soundly. She glanced up at the monitors. All his vitals were stable. Glancing up at the IV bag, she saw it was beginning to run low. Knowing he did not require any more medication at the moment, she got up anyways to change it out. When the nullifiers wore off, she wanted the next bag to be ready. First, she carefully removed the IV from the port on his arm and then took the bag from the hook. Then, she requested a nurse over her earpiece to bring her another tube and bag. These were promptly delivered and prepared.

Just as she turned to sit back down, Jasmine was surprised to see Carris standing at the foot of the cot. She was dressed in fatigue trousers and a trim, olive drab t-shirt. Both hands were curled into loose fists. The petty officer stood very rigidly, almost as if she was standing at attention. Her vibrant blue eyes were a bit wide as she looked past Jasmine at Steele.

"Would you like to sit with him a little while?" Jasmine whispered.

It took some time for Carris to answer. A look of shame crossed her face and her gaze broke from the sleeping sharpshooter.

"I'm not sure I can," was her answer. Jasmine quirked an eyebrow, puzzled. She looked between Carris, standing awkwardly in front of the cot, and then at Steele, sound asleep. When she looked at Carris again, she noticed a hint of worry in her glimmering eyes. It was soft and innocent, almost child-like. Even her hands changed. Instead of keeping them in fists, she now held them in front of her. Both hands began to tug, pull, and grasp one another.

She kept wringing her hands nervously and it was so striking to Jasmine. Carris was the epitome of calm. Everyone knew her not just for her combat prowess and peculiar armor, but her reserved nature and inability to become distressed in the midst of combat. To see her eyes wide, face ashen, and hands fidgeting was very jarring. In short order, however, Jasmine overcame her stupor and smiled. Stepping up to her, she motioned to the door.

"I have an office here in the building. Why don't you come with me and we have some coffee?"

"Ma'am?" Carris said after a moment, looking back at Steele. Jasmine gave her a reassuring look, took out her data pad, and opened a tab at the top of the screen. The page opened up and displayed every single reading the monitors above his cot showed.

"Any complications arise, I'll receive a notification. Don't worry, I don't see any complications," Jasmine added, seeing the look on the Navy officer's face. "Come, come, let's have a drink."

Jasmine led Carris out of the ward, down the corridor, and then up the stairs to an administrative level. Here, there was more activity. Orderlies, staff officers, doctors, and secretaries, were at work. Dozens of workers tapped at terminal keyboards, filed reports, and answered phone calls. Staffers organized supply distribution, updated schedules for the week, and checked on the ward situations on large screens. Most were empty. In conference rooms, physicians and surgeons conducted classes for Navy corpsmen and Army medics, running them through different stages of advanced first aid. In other classroom settings, Marines underwent the Army's combat lifesaver training to better diversify in-field medical training. In other offices, leading medical officers pooled over reports and data sheets, observing their hospital's record. Infantry and engineering officers conferred with field surgeons over field hospital construction and their relative distance to the frontline. Several cliques of younger, junior medical officers were leaving for remedial training.

Eventually, they came to Jasmine's office. It was smaller than her space in the main headquarters building, although it was as large as it needed to be. A desk with two chairs, a terminal, some filing cabinets, and a table with a coffee machine on it were in the center of the office. By the door, there was a leather couch. Across from it was an armchair and between the two was an olive drab rug. Both pieces of furniture had a small stand on either side of it.

On the rear wall of the office was a window that looked over the airfield. Flights of Falcon VTOL's rose from the runways to conduct exercise with airborne troops. Maintenance crews crawled over Pelicans and their tools sparked as they worked.

Jasmine immediately went over to the coffee make. "How do you take it?" she asked.

"I'm not too particular," Carris said.

"One cream, one sugar sounds alright to you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Humming to herself, Jasmine placed two mugs in from of the machine as it sputtered and brewed.

"Nate...Gunnery Sergeant Frost likes his with more cream and sugar than I could ever take. Every time I ask him if he wants a cup, he goes, 'lots of cream, lots of sugar, please.' It's like a mantra."

When Carris did not respond, Jasmine looked over her shoulder, she found Carris pull out the chair in front of her desk. "Oh, why don't you have a seat on the couch? It's more comfortable there. Please, I insist."

Glancing at the couch, Carris hesitated for a few moments. Eventually, she merely nodded, walked over, and sat down stiffly next to the right arm. She sat with her back straight and with her hands resting on her knees. It was not so much resting as grasping them tightly, so much so the legs of her fatigue trousers began to wrinkle and pull upwards.

"Thank you, ma'am," Carris said.

"No need to be so formal. In my office, ranks don't apply. Well, until someone higher ranking comes in but that's rather rare. Most people leave me to my own devices and I like it that way. Besides, I'd rather call you by your name. Petty Office One-Three-Seven seems rather improper. It makes you sound like a product on an assembly line rather than a person."

"I'm a soldier."

"We're people before we're soldiers, Carris. Can I call you Carris?"

"Yes...Jasmine. That's alright."

"Good."

As the coffee machine bepped, she took out the pot and filled the two mugs. She added the sugar and cream, as well as a piece of chocolate to each, then went over to Carris. She took the mug Jasmine offered her and thanked her quietly. Sipping gingerly from her own, she sat down and sighed. Tilting her head back against the chair, she opened her eyes and looked at Carris. She was just staring into her mug and was turning it slowly in her hands.

For a time, they were quiet. Neither exchanged a word or a glance. Eventually, Jasmine took a loud sip and set the mug down on the stand beside her chair. She folded her hands together and rested them on her lap.

"How do you feel?"

Carris looked up only for a brief moment. She looked back down and nodded her head to the side.

"Sick. I feel sick. I have this horrible feeling in my stomach. Like a pit."

"Scared?"

Slowly, Carris nodded. Her brow furrowed and soon she shook her head in frustration.

"I'm not supposed to feel fear. I'm a soldier. I've been taught to ignore fear, adapt, overcome, take the fight to the enemy. I've faced down dozens of Elites, completed missions that were suicide for experienced battalions, and undergone training nobody could ever imagine. For anyone other than myself or my fellow trainees, it would have been nothing but a terrible onslaught, a nightmare that went on and on." Carris raised both hands in exasperation, holding the mug in her left. "But here I am. Scared. And I'm ashamed to admit it."

Jasmine smiled, sat back slightly, and crossed her legs.

"You're a human being before you're a soldier, Carris. We can undergo all the training the UNSC has to offer. I doubt I'll ever experience anything akin to what you have, but we've all seen our share of hardships. From the operating room to the battlefield, we see all manner of horrible things. Anybody who walks around pretending they are not afraid is lying more often than not. It's not an accusation but a truth. If you think that any of the members of your squad aren't afraid when they engage the enemy, they're playing you."

"But that's just it, Jasmine. We're _not _engaging with the enemy. The Covenant is not here. All we're doing is training for the operation to come. It's not even the enemy that has me worried." Carris did not wait for Jasmine to ask. She leaned forward and shook her head. "After I left my old unit, it felt like I didn't have a place anymore. I think that's difficult for anybody in the military. You're so close with so many individuals you can count on them. And you have to count on them, you don't have a choice, and they have to count on you. When you leave your unit, well, you lose that."

Carris finally took a sip from her coffee. She brought it from her lips in surprise and looked inside. Noticing the melted chocolate on the sides of the mug and bobbing in the center, she smiled a little bit.

Jasmine could not help but grin a little herself. Coffee was coffee and all UNSC personnel thrived off of it. Even those who came from cultures which placed tea over coffee, they required caffeine. But if there was one item they enjoyed even better than coffee, it was chocolate. A soldier could be the baddest, hardest, meanest fighter in the entire galaxy. But when he opened up his MRE and was lucky enough to receive something with chocolate in it, whether it was powder for milk or a rock-hard bar, it opened something young and happy within their soul. Nobody could stay sad for long when they were eating it.

After looking at it for a time, Carris took another sip. This time, it was longer. She involuntarily sighed and leaned back, appearing more comfortable. "I had to leave. It was very, very difficult, though. A soldier needs purpose and I definitely had that. I've never lost _that. _The Navy has always given me plenty of missions and I've been able to contribute to the war effort. At least, I think I have."

"We all do. The moment we don the uniform, we are serving humanity."

That made Carris smile a little bit.

"But I lost that kinship that comes from being in a unit for so long, especially one you train with. The Marines of the 89th MEU remind me of my old unit, in a way. I think it's part of the reason I stayed."

"Certainly the squad you're embedded with was a factor, too."

"They were the crux. For a long time, I served alongside SOF forces, sometimes for extended periods. But I was always on the periphery. I could not get in and I don't think they wanted me in anyways. I think they thought I was strange, different, and was not a soldier like them. More of a machine, I suppose. I've gotten that before. This squad, my squad, well, they didn't judge me. They were so open and accepting. I thought they were so strange and I still do, come to think of it. Sometimes, I still wonder why."

Jasmine took a drink, set her mug back, and leaned forward. She pressed her hands together.

"Because they're all misfits themselves. I've talked with many of those Marines. They were all kids when they opted into the Earthen Youth Programs. No direction, poor family lives, poverty; some felt a calling while others saw a more practical solution to their problems by enlisting. Everybody's got a different story and a different reason. People like to talk about melting pots and the Marines truly are just that. When everybody's a misfit, nobody's a misfit, and so you fit right in, you see."

Carris took it in and nodded.

For a time, she did not speak. She quietly sipped her coffee, would lower the pristine white mug, turn it in her hands several times, then take another gulp. In turn, Jasmine drank as well. The coffee was still warm but not hot enough to burn her tongue. Having melted entirely, the sweet chocolate flavor blended nicely with the coffee.

Soon, Carris set her mug down and leaned against the backrest of the couch. Jasmine motioned to the other end.

"You may lay down, if that'd make you feel more comfortable."

After a moment's hesitation, the petty officer changed position and rested her head on the opposite arm of the couch. She folded her hands on her midsection and looked up at the ceiling. Her hair, black as night, swept backwards naturally.

"I felt like I belonged again. When you're with a unit you've bonded with, you feel invincible."

"I know exactly how that feels," Jasmine replied wistfully, thinking of Vivian. Countless victories and achievements on every level of the task force brought them closer together. It made one feel powerful, as if all the technology, weapons, ammunition, and other tools of warfare were on their side.

What's more, it made the recent division between Marines and Navy elements not only distressing but depressing.

"But, recently, it feels different. Like I'm going to lose my unit all over again. I've just got this horrible feeling in my chest, in my gut, in my heart. Things have changed."

"What do you think has changed?"

Carris grew silent. She did not speak for a very long time. For a time, Jasmine was worried she asked the wrong question.

"I'm worried by hurting Corporal Steele...Louis...that they won't accept me like before."

"How did they treat you after Louis was stabilized?"

"They comforted me."

"We're our own worst critics, Carris. Yes, we must hold ourselves and our actions accountable and do better for the future. But, there are other people in our lives, and we're a part of their lives too. When you form these friendships with other individuals, they have a say too. Learning to accept what they say is important for your own growth, especially if you value what they say and do. We can't base all our actions on others', but ignoring them all the time won't be beneficial either."

Jasmine waited to see her reaction. Carris remained expressionless as she stared at the ceiling.

"I'm worried Gunnery Sergeant Frost won't trust me anymore."

"Was he angry?"

"Yes," Carris answered after a brief moment of hesitation. "But he ordered me to come here and be with Steele."

"Nate...Gunnery Sergeant Frost and Louis are very, very close. Everybody in the task force knows they would do anything for one another. He should not have been angry at you for making a mistake, that's unfair, because you didn't want to hurt Louis. But give him a little time, and I think he'll realize he was wrong to act in that manner and he'll apologize. I know he values you as a friend and a soldier, and he doesn't carry that kind of anger for long. He's come a very long way."

Almost before she finished her sentence, Carris turned her head and looked at Jasmine. Her blazing blue eyes met her own. For a moment, Jasmine felt intimidated. All anxiety left the soldier sitting across from her. Veins in her arms bulged as her hands tightened around one another. Muscles in her cheeks tightened as she clenched her teeth. It seemed like she became a spring, tightening up before it shot forward. Even her breathing ceased and her chest grew still.

Then, just as quickly, her gaze softened. Her posture relaxed, her breathing resumed, and she looked back up at the ceiling.

Jasmine cleared her throat and took a sip of coffee. "Is there anything else that's bothering you? Has anything else happened?"

Carris did not answer. She did not grow tense again, but from the side her face seemed to become sadder. Jasmine sat back and folded her hands on her thigh. "I understand the incident at the mine was quite bothersome for everyone involved and being confined to quarters must have been very frustrating. Do you want to-"

"No."

It was curt, sharp, and defensive. Jasmine could not help but find it peculiar. But she thought it was because the incident itself was so intense none of the individual involved would want to speak of it. Unwilling to push it, she just nodded. "In any regard, I don't think anyone thinks less of you for what happened. Training accidents occur all the time and usually with far graver consequences. Steele will make a full recovery, although I don't think he will be able to join us for the operation. Still, please know that nobody thinks of you differently. We all know how you feel about Louis."

Carris nodded slowly.

"Yes..."

Then her eyes popped and she looked over at Jasmine. "...what?"

Jasmine just smiled and bounced her shoulders a little bit. Carris sat up, gripping the edge of the couch and leaning forward. "What do you mean? We? Who's we? Who knows what?"

"Relax," Jasmine giggled. "I don't mean to sound rude, but it's rather obvious. If nobody's commented on it, they're just being polite or truly don't have a sense for that sort of thing."

"I, well, I mean, I don't, it's not-"

"Are you sure it's not?" Jasmine asked, still smiling. "It's everything between you two. When he enters a room, you're with him. If you're already there, you go straight over to him. The way you look at him, the way you talk to him; the smile, the way you break your eyes, or how pink your cheeks get when he calls you by cute little names."

At that moment, Carris blushed very intensely. She rubbed the back of her neck and looked away. "Those feelings, they're okay, Carris. It's okay to have them. And if he feels the same way, it's okay to indulge them."

"But I don't know if he feels the same way," she murmured, then looked up so sharply her dog tags jingled on her chain. "I mean, we're soldiers. It would break numerous fraternization regulations."

Jasmine laughed.

"Didn't stop me. The brass could care less about frat regs nowadays, there's more important things on their plate."

"And ours' too," Carris insisted. "I can't waste time on this when I could be preparing for the next operation or retraining."

Jasmine feigned a thoughtful, inquisitive expression.

"Mmm, I don't know about that."

"We're fighting for humanity."

"And what's the point of fighting for humanity if we can't be human?" Jasmine asked, widening and extending her arms in an exaggerated shrug. Laughing a little, she lowered her arms. "Humanity isn't just a species; its an act, a feeling, made up of thousands of feelings. Act on them now. If you don't, you may never get the chance to."

Carris was about to speak, but she faltered, and lowered her gaze. "Louis can't come with us. By the time he's recovered, we'll be supporting Operation: Exalt. We need all available space for critical casualties and casualties that can't be transported back here. We don't have much time left. Would you rather wait until you're apart to tell him, or bring these undisclosed feelings with you for however long we're away?"

She did not respond to that either. Jasmine got up, sat next to Carris, and took her hand in her own. Placing the other on top of her hand, she smiled up at her. "You never know if someone will reciprocate. Sometimes they do, and it begins a new, exciting, nerve-wracking journey. It seems daunting, but life is filled with those. I suppose it might seem cliche, but each day we go on a journey or continue one we're already on. Starting a new one is difficult, it takes time, effort, and commitment. But what would life be without these journeys?"

Carris looked away from her for a moment. She seemed to think, her blue eyes searching some middle distance Jasmine could not see. Eventually, she looked back, looking quite sorrowful.

"What if he doesn't feel the same way?"

"Then there's another journey for you to go on."

All of a sudden, her data pad pinged. For a brief moment, Jasmine grew nervous as she pulled it out of her coat. Much to her relief, there was only a subtle spike in his heart rate. "Ah, it looks like he's woken up. Why don't you go see him? I think he'd be very happy to see you."

Carris scoffed, but smiled.

"Who would be happy to see the person who just cracked their ribs?"

"Probably someone dumb enough to join the Marine Corps," Jasmine whispered. She patted Carris's hand, took her mug, and walked back over to the coffee maker. "It was good to chat with you, Carris. If you want, I think you should come by again."

"I'll think about it," Carris said.

She stood up and straightened out her uniform. Rather than assuming her previous, nervous disposition, Carris seemed more at ease and professional. "Thank you, Jasmine," she said as she went to the door.

"Of course."

The door opened, but it didn't close. After a moment, Jasmine looked up. Carris was still standing in the doorway. Suddenly, she turned around, took a step back into the room, and saluted.

"Lieutenant Commander."

Jasmine turned and saluted.

"Petty Officer."

Carris smiled and closed the door behind her.

* * *

Steele groggily looked around the hospital ward. A sheet to his left obscured his vision. There was no one in the cot across from him and no medical personnel were around for him to hail. Craning his neck, he glanced upwards at the various monitors. All of the readouts, numbers, and modules they displayed were in bright green, yellow, and red colors. Most of it was gibberish to him, although he assumed it was due more to the medication coursing through his veins than his lack of aptitude in the medicinal field.

It felt lovely to be on it. Many of the other Marines complained about how much they detested morphine. Some said it made them feel groggy or sleepy, others complained the lack of physical control on their bodies caused feelings of distress. Steele always maintained the same argument: that was the point. To feel like he was floating, that he was nearly out of his body, and was no longer bound to gravity was an immensely pleasurable feeling. It was as close to physical freedom a human being could get. Not to mention it meant he could just lay around in bed and not have to salute, stand at attention, or act out any of the other traditional military bogus the officers forced on him. It was the bright side when a man was wounded or when he was suffering from dysentery for the thirtieth time.

Still, he never craved it. Part of enlisting in the Program was to get off the streets. Inevitably, he would have spiraled into the same teenage gang violence and world of drugs his brother was barreling towards. Getting away was self-preservation, even if it meant putting his body on the firing line.

Not seeing or hearing anyone was, however, rather strange. At first, he figured someone would be by shortly. But when no one showed, he could not help but feel somewhat nervous. Although he cherished any opportunity to lie in bed, he was in no position to take care of himself.

Just as he was about to call out, he heard footsteps. A moment later, he was very shocked to see Carris stepping through the doorway to the right of his cot.

"You're awake," was all she said.

"I am," Steele replied, unable to think of anything clever. Carris looked at him for a few moments.

"Do you need anything?"

"I don't think so."

"Can I sit with you?"

"Why not?"

Carris looked around, then spotted a chair nearby. She dragged it to the front of the bed and sat down. Steele watched her, his blue eyes tired but twinkling.

For a time, they were silent. They gazed into each other's eyes, unable or unwilling to speak. Steele found himself smiling. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he wanted her to be there when he woke up. Even if she was not _right _there when he opened his sleepy eyes, she was the first one to show up. To see her was soothing. He felt comfortable laying in bed, safer. But why safer? The Covenant were far away, or at least he thought so. If they showed up he would be very surprised, he decided. But no one was trying to kill him or court martial him. Maybe it was just because of her. Her confidence, her calm, just everything about her. In the thick of the battle, he could look at her and draw courage from her. Not in a flag, not in an uplifting speech, or a propaganda video the ONI spooks from Section Two bombarded the Marines with if they sat in their quarters for too long.

For a moment, he felt the urge to reach out and take her hand. The moment his mind realized the thought, his hand began to drift toward her. But she took his wrist and gently put his arm back on the bed.

"Try not to move too much."

"Are you my new nurse? No sexy outfit?"

Carris smirked, then frowned.

"Shut up."

"Nah, nah, you'd look good. Red and white outfit, miniskirt the comes down to, what, mid-thigh? Not even that? Big open blouse that shows off your cleavage. Maybe even that stupid little hat with the red cross on it, and some white thigh-high stockings. Now there's an image."

Carris blinked. It was easy to see she was trying not to laugh. Her lips kept twitching upwards the corners, then she would force them back down. But each time she pursed her lips, they came back up again, threatening to open up and expose her teeth.

"I think you'd look better in lingerie than I would," Carris said, finally allowing herself to smile.

"With my gammy legs?"

"Gammy? You've got better legs than I do. I've seen you shaving them."

"I do _not_, that's outrageous."

"Oh really?"

"Pull the blanket up, let's take a look at those hairy fuckers."

Carris giggled.

"Stop, stop it, I'm mad at you," she said in between her laughter.

"Mad at me?" Steele exclaimed as he chuckled, his voice still groggy. "I'm injured here. This is gonna take a lot of mommy kisses to fix!"

"Stop trying to make me laugh," Carris snorted, covering her mouth. Steele, still grinning, watched her and listened to her laugh. He was not even trying to be that funny and he doubted any of his friends would be laughing like her. Sometimes, in the wake of a somber event, the slightest, dumbest remark could illicit hysterical laughter out of anybody. People's adrenaline was up, their nerves were peaking, their guts roiled with anxiety and uncertainty about the future. All it took was a dry joke or stupid comment to send someone that on edge into fits of laughter, even if none of it was truly funny.

Steele supposed human beings were strange in that way.

But as he watched her cover her mouth or hold her stomach with her other hand, fidgeting and moving in her chair while she giggled, his smile faded. In his own chest, he felt his lungs heave and his throat became dry. Tears brimmed at the corner of his eyes and threatened to roll down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry."

The words eked their way past his lips, barely containing his emotions. Carris's laughed dwindled and she grew still. Slowly, her smile dropped away.

Steele cleared his throat, but that only brought the lump higher. "I'm, I'm sorry," he said again, his voice close to breaking.

"Louis..."

"I never wanted to put you in that position. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have, I didn't want to, and I did anyways. Made you a part of something _I _didn't even want to be a part of anymore. You, I, I should've kept you clear and I didn't. I'm sorry."

Carris stared at him for a time. Her blue eyes grew water and she sniffed. Wiping them with the back of her hand, she recovered and straightened her clothing out.

"I made the choice to lie. According to military law, according to every rule set down by the UEG, according to my own sense of justice, it was the wrong choice. But I did it because it was selfish."

Steele's hands were resting on the blanket covering him. As she spoke, he began to bundle it up in his grasp.

Carris gripped her knees and looked down at the floor. "I could care less about those smugglers. They were criminals. What Frost did was wrong. What you did was wrong. And by keeping this lie for you, I'm in the wrong too. We're all criminals as well. I should have acted like a soldier and told the truth. But I didn't, because I was selfish."

"It wasn't. It was selfless of you to take on our burden too. You saved us from years and years in a cell. I couldn't survive that; I barely made it through several days in that hellhole. You saved our lives, Carris."

"It's selfish because I didn't do it for you or Frost. I did it for me." Carris slowly looked up. Her blue eyes were glistening and a single tear ran down each cheek. "I did it because I couldn't imagine the next day, or the next day, or the next day, without you."

The words struck him like a bullet. Steele's mouth dropped a little bit and his eyes widened slightly. Even his fingers opened and frozen, letting the bunched up folds of the blanket loose.

Both tears that ran down Carris's face reached her jaw, gathered, nestled on the edge, then fell. They glinted in the sunlight pouring through the window behind Steele's cot, displaying every single color imaginable in those brief moments before it landed on the tile floor.

She sniffed, shrugged, sat up, and looked away. "I don't know if that's the right or wrong way to say it. Maybe there is no objective right or wrong for something like this. How can we ever possibly define our feelings? We feel them and that's it. All we can do is choose to act on them or not, and see where that takes us, see what we can do about them on that...journey. I don't know if I was ever going to be able to say. Well, I don't know, maybe it's not that way. I guess it's more like I wasn't sure how I was going to say or find the time to. But I just came to realize, what I was just helped to realize...well...not saying it became an impossibility. I had to tell you, and I needed you to know."

Carris looked back. She offered a weak, sad smile. "You're surly, rude, mean, you have poor habits and you constantly reek of cigarettes to the point it's nauseating. I think on the surface, that's enough to drive other people away. What brings them to you is that charm of yours and that handsome face. You wouldn't have liaison count almost as high as your kill count if that wasn't the case. But you've always been so kind to me, kinder than all the rest. You treat me like a person. And you care. Even if it's not the same way, I knew I could always trust you to care."

She sniffed, wiped her face again, and sat back. Carris threw up a dismissive hand. "I think that's all I got to say, or can say. I'm having trouble figuring this all out anyways, Louis. Take it as you will. Just know that I care about you too, maybe more than you do for me. Regardless of how you feel, I'll always have your back on the battlefield."

Steele looked at her for a long time. It was not so much trying to find the right words to say rather than having no words at all. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing inside his head. Even as confusion, elation, sadness, every possible emotion under the sun ran up and down his body, there simply were no words. It was as if he forgot how to speak or Dr. Ebrahimi decided to remove his voice box as they were patching him up.

Eventually, he reached over and took her hand. He squeezed it tenderly and she did the same.

"Carris," he began, his voice shaking, "I don't know."

Tears ran down her cheeks. "I don't want to fill you with false hopes and fairy tale dreams. I just, it's a lot to take in."

"It's not like I need an answer," Carris said. "I just needed you to know, that's it. You don't even have to say anything."

"But I feel Like I have to."

"It's fine," Carris said, shrugging and shaking her head.

"I think you're amazing," Steele said, surprising even himself. "Sounds like bullocks right out of those cheesy flicks they're making nowadays. But you ain't like anybody I've ever met. If I didn't think you were amazing, if I didn't give a shit about what you thought about me, or if I didn't give a fuck about you, I probably would have tried bringing you to bed two days after we first met. But, I knew you were different. I knew you're a little like me and the others; out of place. Just one look, I knew you were someone else."

Carris blinked and looked away shyly, her cheeks red hot. Steele smiled and tugged on her hand. "Just give me a little time to think about it. I think after I'm out of the hospital and I'm rolling on missions with you again, things'll slide into place."

A somber expression clouded Carris's face. Her blue eyes grew distant and her lips parted. She made a small sound; it was not one of fear, but sorrow.

Steele's eyebrows knitted together. "What?"

"Dr. Ebrahimi didn't tell you."

"I've been out for a while." Steele's heart began to beat faster and his lungs felt uncomfortably light.

"You're not coming with us," Carris finally said. "You won't be healed in time for jump off. Dr. Ebrahimi can't bring you because she needs the space for battle casualties."

Steele's hand slipped from hers and hung limply over the edge of the bed. Slowly, he looked up at the ceiling. As his lips moved and his voice hitched in his throat, he finally choked a short sob that hurt his chest. He did not care. Tears rolled down his temples and into his hairline.

"No," he said eventually. "No, that's bullshit. I'm not fucking staying here while everyone goes. No, fuck that. I'm not staying, I'm not fucking staying. Who the fuck is gonna take care of the squad? Who's gonna have your back and Frost's and Grant's and fucking everybody? What're you gonna do without me on overwatch? Huh? The _fuck _am I supposed to do hear where I can't fucking protect you dumbasses!?" he yelled. "The fuck am I good for if I can't fucking go with you!?"

Carris stood up and held his arms.

"Calm down, you're going to hurt yourself."

"It's the only thing I can do!" Steele shouted. "It's the only way I can fucking give back to you and him. If I'm stuck here I might as well off myself!"

"Don't say that!"

Steele began to sit up, but Carris kept him down.

"I'm not staying! I can't stay while you go! I have to go with you, Carris, I have to go with you all. No, don't make me stay!"

"You're getting hysterical, please, Louis, hold still!"

"I can't stay while you go!"

"Nurse!" Carris screamed. "Nurse! Nurse!"

"Don't make me stay! I have to fight! I have to look out for you and Nate! What am I gonna do if you're all gone!?"

"Doctor!" Carris hollered. "Doctor Ebrahimi! Jasmine, please! Nurse! Doctor! Anybody! I need help!"

Jasmine, two nurses, and a med-lab technician burst through the doorway. One of the nurses slid by Carris and held him down. Steele, so incensed and distressed, was unable to make out anything they were saying. All he could see was Carris and the focused faces of the medical staff. All of a sudden, Jasmine and the other nurse came to his left. While the nurse gripped his arm, Jasmine quickly turned a small knob on the port in his arm. Suddenly, Steele felt very cold. His strength faded and the pain in his chest began to fade. Slowly, slowly, his eyelids grew heavy until everything turned black.

* * *

**Word Count: **6,352

**Pages (Google Docs): **16

**Original Font: **PT Serif

**Original Font Size: **11

**Original Line Spacing: **1.5

**Author's Note: **I'll just say this chapter got super real for me and leave it at that. And that it was interesting to have Carris be the subject but have her explored through the lenses of two other characters. Onto the comment responses!

**Comment Responses:**

**MightBeGone: **Yeah, I should have kept my mouth shut and not mentioned my stride. Apparently my stride, rather than being an elongated, strong gait, is more of a tip-toe little shuffle that still results in me stubbing my toes. But thanks for the encouragement, that really helps.

Well they had a talk so there ya go. Now it'll be another five thousand years before there's anymore Starris. MWHAHAHAHAhahaha...I can't back that up.

I was lying about the brownies I don't know how to bake. But I gave you a round of applause here so I hope that'll suffice. Thanks for reading.

**Ctrl-Dalt-Delete: **Thanks, I'm glad you're enjoying!

**Caver Floyd: **Hey, hey, hey, good to see ya! Glad you're enjoying it so far, really appreciate you coming on back to get your _Halo_-fix. Hey, enjoy it and indulge it, nothing wrong with that, is there?

Is there!? Hey, thanks for reading, appreciate it.


	16. Chapter 16: Hope

Chapter 16: Hope

* * *

"No damage to his ribs and the port is stable."

Frost stood beside Carris at the foot of Steele's cot. The scout sniper was once again asleep and his vitals were stabilized. All the readings on the monitors displayed proper vitals. Another monitor displayed slides of his most recent x-rays, which showed the damage had not been exacerbated.

Jasmine turned around, set her data pad down on a side table, and pushed her glasses back up her nose. She dismissed the other medical staff and waited for them to leave. Then, she folded her arms across her chest and looked up at Carris. As her initial concern began to fade, it was replaced by frustration.

For Frost, it was rare to see Jasmine perturbed. Aggravation did not come easily to her. Empathy and compassion defined her; she was the true angel of the ward rooms. Whether a Marine was on the brink of death or simply received a minor wound to their foot, she cared for them with equal dedication and did not rest until they were healed, safe, and comfortable. Even when there were no casualties to work on, she was constantly observing her staff, guiding them through remedial training, personally restocking supply rooms, sterilizing equipment, cleaning operating rooms, and penning essays on new surgical methods, implants, robotic prosthetics, long-term care on a starship, and other military medicinal matters.

To see her eyes bright and burning, brows knitted, lips pursed, and her stance commanding and defiant, was very jarring. Even though he was not present for what happened, he could not help but feel intimidated. Looking up at Carris, he could see she appeared nervous as well. Whether it was from the head medical officer's posture and expression or the incident itself, he did not know. But it was just as surprising to see the toughest, strongest, most dutiful soldier in their number bearing herself with anxiety. Nothing ever seemed to phase her and yet here she was, unsure and guilty. The only time he saw her lose her cool with his own two eyes was when Steele was nearly gutted by an energy sword; after tearing the Elite's head apart, she rushed him to the field hospital so quickly the others could not keep up. It was like chasing a heavily armored race car. Even then, her face was hidden by her helmet and she maintained a professional appearance.

Seeing the two completely shedding their normal skins made him feel like he was in another dimension. Unable to comprehend it, he just stood stock still and stayed silent.

"Petty Officer Third Class," Jasmine began, "can you please tell me what exactly brought Corporal Steele to that state?"

Her voice was even but firm. Carris folded her hands behind her back and stood up straight.

"We were talking. When I told him he would not be able to be a part of Operation: Exalt, he exploded. He was distressed, beside himself, crying, swearing, and saying things I'm not sure I understood."

Jasmine sighed and her expression softened. She stepped closer to Carris and offered a sympathetic smile. Her hand rose and touched the tall soldier's arm.

"I understand. He must have taken it very hard. Marines are built that way; it's all about the unit and getting into the action _together. _Unable to join his unit, he feels lost and like he won't be able to contribute. Wouldn't you say so, Nate?"

She turned slightly and faced Frost. The Gunnery Sergeant smiled a little, nodded, and looked up at Carris.

"Doesn't matter the branch of service. Anybody who doesn't get to go with their buddies into the suck, they feel like they're failing and letting everyone down. Steele's a lot of things," he nodded his head to the side and laughed a little. It was somewhat forced. "Most of them are bad, but he's loyal to his pals. He acts like he doesn't give one damn about anybody but he'd be the first one to step in front of a bullet or plasma bolt that was coming your way."

Frost looked at him again and sighed sadly. Without thinking, his legs carried him over to the side of his bed and he bent over. Reaching out, he gently gripped Steele's shoulder and squeezed. "He's a good man, a really good man. Just a great guy. Always tried to keep me on the right path, you know? You couldn't ask for a better friend."

Clearing his throat, he stood back up to face Jasmine and Carris. "It's going to be hard for him to stay, especially when he's going to get back on his feet. It's not like there's a ferry that can just take him to meet up with us when he's healed. He'll have to wait until we get back."

"Or until he gets transferred," Jasmine offered.

Carris and Frost both looked at one another, sharing a distressed glance. The thought had not crossed either of their minds. Imagining his best friend being sent to some other Marine outfit to a terrible battlefront was terrifying. Without his friends, without his unit, Steele would fall apart. In a matter of months or even weeks, he would end up in the stockade for his numerous infractions. If he got into a cell, he would not make it.

Stepping back over to Jasmine, he instinctively took her hands. Jasmine blinked and blushed, but did not take them away.

"Isn't there anything you can do? Can't you keep him in the hospital? Do something to his medical records to make sure he doesn't get transferred?"

"You're asking me to forge medical documents!" Jasmine hissed. She withdrew her hands and took Frost by his shoulders. "I understand you don't want him to be sent away and that in the best of circumstances, he could come with you or at least wait until the task force comes back to resupply. But you cannot ask me to abuse my position like that. If I was to falsify my records, lie to Vivian, lie to all my superiors and even my subordinates, I would be breaking numerous UNSC laws. Not to mention I would be wasting resources and space on someone who isn't even a casualty. I'm sorry, Nate, I know he's like your brother and you care about him very much, but that's asking too much of me."

Frost's mouth opened a little. Instead of being able to formulate a sentence, a stifled sob came out. It was a pathetic noise that bordered on the verge of tears. Although he continued to face her, his eyes went to Steele.

He seemed so calm and peaceful. Once more, his thick blonde hair was swept over to the side. A few errant locks strayed across his forehead. His chest rose and fell with steady frequency. Only when the room was devoid of conversation could one hear his very light breathing.

Jasmine cupped Frost's cheek with her left hand. "I'm sorry, darling, but it's wrong and I can't be a part of that."

"I can't go without him," Frost murmured.

"Neither can I," Carris said, louder and stilted. Jasmine looked at them both.

"You have to. You're soldiers."

Jasmine's hand dropped and she looked at Steele. "Do either of you want to stay with him? It'll be some time before he wakes back up? I don't mind staying with him."

"Yeah, could you, please? I think Carris and I need to get out of here for a little bit," Frost said. He looked up at her. "What do you think?"

Carris hesitated. Her blue eyes were filled with doubt and she looked at him suspiciously. But Frost pleaded with his eyes, trying to somehow convey he was not planning anything or had an ulterior motive. Whether or not the expression in his eyes got across to her, she eased her own and nodded at Jasmine.

"Yes, I think for now we should go. Would you call one of us when he wakes back up? It might do him so good to see us when he wakes back up. It might be calming."

"I agree. If I notice any irregularities or when he wakes up, I'll notify you."

"Thanks, Jas," Frost said.

Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Jasmine tucked her head under his chin and breathed into his chest. Resting his chin on the top of her head, he nuzzled her for a moment, then withdrew and kissed her. Jasmine smiled and turned back to take her seat.

Motioning to Carris, Frost began to leave. When he noticed he was walking alone, he looked over his shoulder. She was still standing at the foot of the bed, looking at him.

"Carris."

She turned sharply and looked at him. He nodded to the far door. "Let's go."

Slowly, she began to follow him. Side by side, they went out into the corridor, went to the elevator, rode it down to ground level, and went out into the waning sunlight. For the first time in weeks, the base was growing inactive. Convoys were shorter and less packed with personnel and supplies. Supply ships ascending and descending were becoming infrequent. Even the mechanics were running out of vehicles to repair. It was quieter and calmer, especially in the evenings.

A new stillness was overtaking the base. The coming operation was looming closer by the day. Frost stopped. Carris took a step further, halted, but did not turn around. He looked at the back of her head. "I've been with him since I was thirteen years old. It's been ten years. Ten years, Carris. I'm not sure I can do this without him."

She turned halfway and looked at him sadly.

"It's been just a few for me and it's just as impossible. What are we going to do without him?"

For a moment, Frost could say nothing. He felt a strange sense of loneliness. With the base so devoid of activity and life, and the knowledge his closest friend in the entire galaxy was not going to come with him, how could he not? Knowing his right hand man, the best scout sniper in the entire 89th MEU, was going to miss the biggest operation his unit ever participated in, made him feel naked and unequipped. Every unit designation in the entire UNSC Marine Corps was like a building block, right up to the largest formations. But it all began with the fire team, and then most importantly, the squad. Already understrength and with one of key Marines gone, the foundation of the block was cracked.

But, he could not help but smile. He knew that manner of military thinking was entirely lost on Steele. He could care less; all he wanted to do was smoke, drink, fornicate, and shoot aliens. In the end, that was all Frost needed him for in a tactical sense. Perhaps, facing the remarkable odds ahead of him, not having his point of normalcy, the one fellow who could make him laugh the hardest, was what truly scared him. Jasmine made him smile, made him feel loved, thought of, and cared about; he could go to her for anything. But if he wanted his sides to hurt and his throat to grow hoarse from laughter, all he needed to do was speak to Steele.

Frost chuckled, shrugged, and stepped closer.

"We adapt, improvise, and overcome. You're going to have to be our new wild card."

"I don't do wild well, Gunny," Carris scoffed, but she managed a smile. She pushed her black hair behind her ears and looked back towards the hospital. "I don't think it was just telling him he wasn't coming that pushed him over the edge."

For a moment, Frost thought something occurred between the pair. Had they discussed what happened at the mine? Did she accost him for defending him? However right she may have been, what gave her the right to accuse and attack his friend?

His hands clenched into fists and he began to close the distance between them. Whether she was about to unleash the same argument upon him or her fists he did not care. Nobody could torment a wounded Marine in such a manner, one who was his friend, no less.

But she didn't seem to notice his aggressive posture. Her eyes seemed far away and her posture timid. As he began to slow down, Frost's fists opened. She did not look like someone who castigated another person. Rather, she looked more like a child who knew they did wrong. Although his anger was not fleeting, he was more confused than before.

Now only a few paces away from her, he stooped a little and craned his neck to try and meet her gaze. Her eyes had fallen to their boots. When she looked up, she seemed scared. "I told him."

Frost blinked, then laughed a little, and smiled.

"You finally told him?"

Carris nodded her head to the side.

"Yes I..." her brow furrowed and she looked up at him in shock. "...what do you mean _finally_, how could you possibly know?"

Smiling and chuckling, he came closer.

"Carris, _everyone _knows."

"Did Grant tell you?" Carris asked flatly, her brow straightening out and her facial features sagging.

"No, he didn't, but I'm not surprised he didn't figure it out. He doesn't exactly have the sort of social tact to figure that out."

This made her laugh. Frost shrugged. "We've all known for a while. We can see it clear as day. Not to be rude, but you weren't exactly being subtle. You're practically stapled to his side most of the time. You two delight in each other. I can't say whether or not Steele feels the same way you do about him, but you're certainly special to him."

Carris's blue eyes twinkled. But she soon shrugged, jammed her hands into her pockets, and looked away.

"I never thought I'd have these kind of feelings for anybody. Just wasn't part of the training. I was a little girl and they were teaching me how to effectively eliminate an enemy combatant with a knife without him making noise, disarming roadside improvised explosive devices with a pair of cutters, and how to field strip an MA5B blindfolded. Nobody taught me what to do with these feelings and now I'm groping around in the dark trying to figure everything out. I have so many skills, so much experience, even my body has been pushed beyond the reach of the average human being, yet I find myself so incapable, so uninformed, and so completely out of touch." She threw one of her hands up and shook her head. "What am I going to do about him?"

Frost nodded his head to the side.

"Louie's my best friend. Surprising, really. He and I are far from similar. Some college professors' son and the son of a couple urban workers put on the same uniform and somehow became brothers. I bet you in civilian life, he and I would have steered clear of one another. Steele could care less about honor, duty, military tradition, and just about anything if I think about. For him, it's all about booze, smokes, women, shooting, and his friends."

He came up and tapped her on the shoulder. "When we describe people who just stand out, we often write them off, don't we? Someone presses you about that person or this person, you just wave them off and go, 'Oh, they're a _lot _of things.' But Louie's _not _a lot of things. There's not much to him. I was raised listening to music that's six centuries old and was immersed in an environment that balanced academics with hard, rural work. I carry pieces of my family in me. But Steele didn't have that. We're his family, so he carries us in him. I doubt he'd ever admit or acknowledge that, or maybe he doesn't know that himself. Without us, he's empty."

Carris's eyebrows knitted together and she seemed to think deeply. Frost was not sure what to make of the expression on her face.

It was often difficult to read her. Steele never seemed to have any trouble, although nobody knew Carris better than him. They were all close and after living together in comfortable but ultimately cramped quarters. In that kind of environment, you saw multiple individuals' daily routines, unique mannerisms, and most baffling, disgusting, or annoying habits. Steele chain-smoked, openly read pornographic magazines, spent a great deal of time in the latrine with those magazines, took great effort to comb his thick crop of blonde hair or trim his mustache, and generally stayed in his rack rather than roam around the room. Although, he remained very sociable and possessed the ability to multitask. He could hold a conversation despite reading, grooming, or taking care of his gear. No matter what he was doing or what face he was wearing, Frost could figure him out in a matter of moments.

On the other hand, Carris was neat and tidy. Her routine was right out of the infantry manual. She would wash, eat, brush her teeth, attend to any details or duties required of her, and divided her time between training and mingling with the squad. Unlike almost everyone in the squad, she did not smoke, nor did she partake heavily in any alcoholic beverages when they were able to find some. What she read was taken from the ship's recreational area or borrowed from another individual. She never spent more than two minutes during a bathroom visit beyond her morning shower, which was kept under five minutes. While Carris was not as chatty as their scout sniper, slowly but surely she came out of her shell. Holding a conversation with someone was no longer difficult but she was not sure footed in sarcasm or comedy.

Still, it was remarkable progress for such little time. Sometimes, it still felt like she just joined the squad. Perhaps that was why he still found her difficult to understand; it was just a matter of time spent with one another.

When she looked up, she seemed forlorn.

"He kept saying what he was going to do if he couldn't be there for us. Tears were coursing down his cheeks and he was hysterical, just _beside _himself."

Her lips quivered and her blue eyes glimmered with tears. Before they fell, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "It was like watching his heart break."

Frost could feel his heart tighten. It was like a fist was clenching it. The feeling was beyond sadness or sympathy; he felt guilt for not being by his friend's side.

Carris smiled sadly. "It was horrible to see him that way. But he never lets on just how much he cares. In a way, I was happy to hear him say it. I just wish it could have been different, you know?"

Frost nodded and agreed.

"So, you told him. What did he say?"

"That he needed time," Carris said, kicking at a pebble-sized piece of concrete. She shrugged, hands still in her pocket. "I understand. It's not like I expect him to instantly reciprocate or have those same feelings. I mean, how could he? He's always got a woman in his room."

"Yeah, but those encounters don't mean anything to him." Frost closed one eye and tilted his head to the left, smiling cheekily. "Well, there isn't much that does, but still. But you do. We do."

Carris just nodded, looking down at her feet as she went from foot to foot. Frost watched her for a moment. "I'm glad you told him. It makes me very happy."  
She looked up sharply, wearing a confused frown. Frost held up his hands. "I don't mean to sound condescending. But really, I think you and him, that's a good thing. For both of you. You help each other in a lot of ways, but it's more than that. I think you two are just real good pals and that can be very tough to find. Took me thirteen years and enlistment in the Marines to find my best friend. You two make each other laugh, you make each other happy. So, why not give it a shot?"

She sort of laughed, but it was exasperated and sad.

"Give what a shot? I don't know how to do this. I don't even know how you and Jasmine make it work."

"We were friends. We're _still _friends." Frost smiled, rather more confidently than he thought he was. "It never really stops being friendship. It just becomes deeper. There's a physical aspect, sure, and more importantly a commitment element. But if you're tight before that, you'll find it isn't that hard to stay committed once you take that next step. And the physical stuff? Sounds like a cop-out, but that falls into place so long as you don't force it. Do what feels natural for both of you."

"You're talking like he and I are already together."

"We shouldn't get too far ahead of ourselves, I know. But, it's important to have something to look forward to, or at least hope for," Frost explained.

"Whatever decision he makes, I'll respect."  
"That's certainly kind of you. Shows what kind of person you are and what kind of friends you are to one another. But don't use that to deny your own feelings or decimate whatever hope you have. If you don't hope for it, what's the point of wanting it? If we're going to treat something without hope, what's the point of doing anything? Why fight?"

A nearby Warthog revved its engine, turned out of the maintenance shed it was in, and drove by. As it did, Frost and Carris were briefly illuminated in its bright white headlights. Finally gone, they were left in the waning twilight, reduced to a fading pink-purple haze in the distant sky.

Offering a kind smile, Frost patted on her on the shoulder again and walked by. "Don't lose hope, Carris. When he's awake again, go see him."

As he began to walk towards the barracks, he did not hear her footsteps following. He knew she was not following. Sometimes, a person was so deep in thought and caught up in the turmoil of their mind they just could not get their legs to move. Nobody understood that better than him.

"Frost."

He stopped and turned around. Carris was facing him, her face firm and serious. Both fists were curled into fists.

"This doesn't change anything between you and I."

"You follow my orders and we won't have a problem," Frost simply said.

Carris nodded, then her hands opened.

"But thank you for saying that."

Frost managed a smile.

"Thanks for being there for my friend."

###

Training and preparations continued. A great deal of the resources transported to the Port from Great Bear were steadily loaded onto the assault ships. Albatrosses were loaded with vehicles and rose to orbit, depositing their cargo into the bellies of numerous ships. Aircraft that were not rated for orbit entry were packed in as well; one by one Hornets and Army Falcons were brought skyward. Everything from MRE's and toilet paper to fragmentation grenades and armor-piercing ammunition filled supply holds. Slowly but surely, like a trickle of water, personnel who finished training were sent back up into the ships. Personnel levels in the Port began to decrease, as did the surplus of munitions, vehicles, weapons, medicine, and base building materials.

Personnel engaged in training and schooling for their new promotions graduated from their fast-track courses. Frost, having been promoted three times in under three years, spent a great deal of his off-time studying in the course. But he was proud to have finished and left feeling new skills resonating and gelling with his previous experience. Having been allowed to command his original squad by Major Holst was definitely a factor. Not having to be entirely detached from his friends on a daily basis and spend time with the headquarters element of his platoon was a welcome relief. Frost was a Marine, a ground pounder, a trooper with the Combat Action Ribbons to prove it. He wanted to fight beside his friends, not go up and down the platoon. Still, he felt the weight of his position and was prepared to follow any orders Royce gave him.

Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing was still pushing the Raiders very hard. Shooting drills, small unit tactics, formation maneuvering, ruck marches, field survival training, dive training, and even free-fall parachuting jumps became very normal. Frost relished both HALO and HAHO jumps. It was some time before he was able to conduct such training. In combat scenarios the jump was far more tense and focused. He remembered what it was like to free-fall on the Skopje mountain with Steele. Normally chatty, both were silent the entire Pelican ride to the drop zone. But in a training capacity, everyone enjoyed themselves.

It was bittersweet not to have Steele with him though. Instead, he found Captain Waters beside him most of the time. Day by day, she honed her infantry skills. She became a common sight among the Marines who seemed to enjoy her company. Frost supposed she was trying to win back their respect rather than simply trying to be popular. Many were still wary of the Navy officer who tried to clap their friend and stand-out Marine behind bars. But as the training intensified and the days grew long, they treated her like a fellow Marine. Tales were swapped, jokes were laughed or booed at, and they ate their MRE's together like regular leathernecks.

Vivian took on a new appearance in the time she spent with the Raiders. Her natural tan skin seemed to deepen as it was exposed to the sun and the elements. She gained more muscle and although she remained lean, she was certainly stronger and far more sinewy. For a time, he thought she entirely shed her posture as a Navy officer. Commissioned officers in the Navy held themselves in a certain way; Marines tended to insult them but Frost respected it. They were part of a military order that spanned the centuries and required more than just grit; it took cunning, skill, ruthlessness, logic, and efficiency. Like her Navy peers, Vivian held herself very highly. Her chin was always raised a little bit, her shoulders were very straight, and her hands remained folded behind her back. When she walked, she did so with authority, quite aware of the weight and power of her position as a leader of many crews. In a way, she was a captain of captains. Her gait was further compounded by the space walk, the peculiar wide bounds officers who spent great amounts of time in artificial gravity. However, having spent the better part of a year on the surface and learning how to move like a Marine eliminated such movement. Frost was sure it would return when she ascended to the _I'm Alone _once more.

Other Navy officers and even enlisted personnel were partaking in some of the joint exercises. Some only went as far as to practice with the Marines at the firing range. It was a start at least. Many hostile glares and standoffs continued between the two factions, but the threat of shouting matches and brawls were gone. Waters' presence between the two groups provided a balancing effect; she still held herself in a Navy manner but she was clad in the BDU's the grunts wore.

Frost could not help but admire her. It was not in her training at OCS and she took it far harder than the experienced Marines of the 89th MEU. Even after months of exercises, she was still liable to drop down and fall asleep after a ruck march while the Marines were able to stay awake. But she worked very hard and provided great encouragement to the men. Sometimes, after the day's training ended and the sun began to set, he would see her strolling through the Port. Everyone knew she used to wander the labyrinthine corridors of the _I'm Alone. _Even after spending so much time on the beautiful ship, many Marines still needed to consult the directory at every corner to traverse the ship. Some never ventured too far from their typical areas; quarters, galley, recreation area, training room, and the hangars. Even a number of the Navy personnel admitted they could get lost.

But not Vivian. She trundled through the halls without glancing up, deep in thought over some aspect of their operations. A few Marines tried to come up with nicknames for her. 'The Midnight Captain,' was one of them, although others preferred, 'The Ghost Captain,' seeing as she could be seen in one instance and then gone in another. In a way, he was not surprised to see her habits unchanged. Still dirty from the field, her face often coated in dust or mud, clad in smelly BDU's, she walked throughout the base. She would watch the Albatrosses take on their loads at the airfield or gaze at the frigates in drydock.

It was during one of these moments, a few weeks later, he joined her.

"Thought you'd go clean up and spend the rest of the evening with Jasmine," Vivian said to him as he walked up on her left. She was still in her field uniform and had an MA5B slung over her shoulder.

"Soon," was all Frost said, throwing his own rifle over his shoulder before folding his arms across his chest.

"Jasmine tells me your man Steele is recovering well."

"He's still sore he won't get into the suck."

"Good. He can use that during his rehabilitation and his assignments here. Maybe we can have him train replacements and participate in sniper school."

"Steele teaching replacements?" Frost clicked his tongue, whistled, and shook his head. "I think all the Commandants would be rolling in their graves if that happened."

Vivian offered a polite chuckle.

A _Charon_-class light frigate, called _Frying Pan_, was in the dock ahead of them. Its titanium armor plating glowed in the bright white lights of the shipyard. Night had already fallen and the aura of the lights created a dome like shape protruding out of the darkness. Red, white, yellow, and green lights, like little shiny pinpricks, dotted the shadows of the surrounding towers, cranes, and warehouses. Yellow, metallic scaffolding was erected like a city made entirely of bridges, lefts, and catwalks. From where they stood at the edge of the second airfield's tarmac, the mechanics and builders on the scaffolding looked like ants. Showers of glittering, orange sparks, poured from their welding torches. Sounds of drills, hammering, and shouting carried across the grassy knoll separating the airfield and the shipyards.

As he watched, Frost was reminded of late nights in Halifax. His family's urban home was near the docks. Although orbital travel was far more desirable for travel and the transportation of freight, maritime commerce was still responsible for much of Earth's global trade. He remembered how quiet it was even with ships coming in and out of port. Some of the light didn't carry far over the water, so they looked more like huge, cumbersome shadows gliding across the dark water. With the city subdued and quiet, one could hear the hulls creaking in the waves or the clatter of machinery within.

He looked over at Vivian. She was holding her chest rig with both hands, fingers tucked behind the exterior plate. A small smile tugged at her lips. A gentle nighttime breeze caught a lock of her blonde hair and cast it across her face.

She nodded at the _Frying Pan. _

"When I was a kid, I used to press my face to the glass of our apartment to look at the docks. I loved watching the ships being built and see all the little flickering lights. Shipbuilding is Skopje's biggest industry, did you know that? Life seemed to revolve around those yards. I wasn't the only one who enjoyed looking at the yards at night too. Seemed like everywhere you went, even if you were far out from the city, you could see them. Even on the darkest nights, you could see it all. We called them 'Skopje Night Lights,' because the flashes were so constant."

Vivian chuckled a little and shook her head a little. "I never planned on joining the Navy. But once I did, I never thought I'd see anything resembling home at all. The galaxy is just so _huge _and even with the Covenant advancing, there are hundreds of colonies out there. You can't imagine one world being like the next. It's one thing to _look _the same, but _be _the same? No. Every place is different in big ways or little ways. But those night lights, I loved them so much. I accepted that it would be a long time before I ever saw them again, and there was a chance I wouldn't see them again."

Her smile faded and she looked down briefly. For a moment, Frost grew concerned and thought about putting a hand on her shoulder. A simple gesture of understanding was often enough to bring someone out of their own mind. Before he could, she raised her chin and the little smile returned. "But here we are. Right on the frontier of UNSC space, at the head of a task force armed to the teeth, preparing to thrust into the unknown perils of the Covenant occupied zone. We can see all the reconnaissance images and read sheets and sheets and sheets of data, but we will never truly understand what's waiting out there for us. You couldn't be any farther from home than where we are now, and we cross the frontier, we'll be going somewhere we may not come back from."

Letting go of her rig, she pointed briefly at the shipyard. "But here it is. A picture of home. May just be a mirage, but facades like that aren't innately good or evil entities. Sometimes, they can taunt and torture us. Maybe a year ago, it would have been horrible to stand here and see this reminder of my homeworld. I can imagine it, feel it even; so terribly homesick I'd keel over."

She brushed the hair from her eyes and then folded her arms across her chest. For a moment, her mouth hung open slightly. Her eyes searched the yards, the glare of the lights glowing in her emerald green eyes. "But, it warms my heart to see it. I feel more at home than I have been in years."

For a time, she was silent. Frost was unsure of what to say but he was happy enough to listen. Suddenly, Vivian laughed a little and turned a little to face him. "Maybe I've just settled into the lifestyle. Just got used to ships and military bases and having so much sweat on my back I might as well be swimming."

"I'd like to say you get used to it," Frost joked.

"If you've been doing this for a decade and _you're _not used to it, then I'm a goner," Vivian said. Frost laughed. She gazed at him for a moment, a curious look sparkling in her eyes. "What do you have to see to remind you of home?"

"Oh, I dunno. It's hard to say. Sometimes I lived in the city, and other times in the country. Depended on the season. We had a decent parcel of land we raised horses on and grew flowers. Big, green country. I loved the way it looked when it was covered in snow."

"How ironic," Vivian mused.

"Trust me, it's not lost on me in the slightest." Frost sighed then, his smile fading. "But sometimes when I look at a snowy field, I can't see home. Can't feel it, like you can. It's just been so long. Last time I saw it was when I was sixteen and it was only for a short time."

"Seven years without seeing home," Vivian shook her head. "I can't imagine how hard that is."

Frost just nodded. He looked back at the yards, but could see Vivian looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Eventually, she looked forward. "Well, at least you have something to work towards."

He chuckled a little.

"Something to hope for."

"We're ready," Vivian said, turning to face him. "We pull this off, maybe we can all go home. Together."

Frost turned and saw she was extending her hand. She was wearing a confident expression, one that he could not help but mirror himself. He took her hands.

"Together."

* * *

**Word Count: **6,131

**Pages (Google Docs): **14

**Original Font: **PT Serif

**Original Font Size: **11

**Original Line Spacing: **1.5

**Author's Note: **Would be a Vox story if there were people talking in twilight with wind in their hair. I liked this chapter, it was interesting; Frost is beginning to repair his friendship with Carris through their mutual friend, as well as forming one with Vivian. It'll be interesting to see how this turns out. Well, for you; I know what's gonna happen. I'm going to devote my available time to working on _Marsh Silas _in the next few days; I don't want to fall behind on two projects farther than I already am. I again got slammed with work this week and I'm feeling very unwell too, so writing has been slow. But I'm catching up, slowly but surely. Thanks everyone for sticking with me.

Gonna be short on comment responses too, because I gotta hit the sack right quick.

**Comment Responses: **

**MightBeGone: **Thanks for the support and encouragement, glad you're enjoying it so far. You can expect some more Steele and Carris stuff soon.

**TheShadeOps: **Jasmine's coming a little out of her shell too. She's less rigid now and although she's the literal angel of the battlefield, she's not going to baby people either. A little teasing is healthy and gets people out of certain moods if applied correctly and Jasmine certainly knows how to do it correctly! It's fun to write her like that. And hey, wouldn't be _I'm Alone _without the whiplash.

Wow, that's really something and it sounds pretty cool. I'd certainly like to see that. I've been thinking of downloading the Trebuchet mod but I'm trying to get more acquainted with _Arma 3 _before I do.

**Qrs-jg: **50-50 chance when you tell someone you like them you get a smooch or they burst into fits, right? ...right? Or is that just me. Might just be me if I'm being honest...oh god I'm so lonely.


	17. Chapter 17: Jump-Off

Chapter 17: Jump-Off

* * *

The day finally arrived. The 1st CBG was shoving off to support Operation: Exalt. Swarms of Pelicans and Albatrosses streamed between the Port and the battlegroup waiting in orbit. Droves of Marines and Navy personnel lined the airfields with all their personal gear and belongings. Troopers clad in their M52B body armor smoked and joked. Ensigns in trim, gray tunics and seamen in, carried their flight bags and eagerly awaited to get back on the _I'm Alone _or respective ship. Scorpions and Warthogs lined the tarmac and were loaded into Albatrosses. Longswords and Shortswords, assigned to planetside duty for months, took off and disappeared in the sky, returning the hangar's of waiting ships. Stacks and stacks of supplies waited to be sent off.

As rivers of personnel flowed from the command post and the multitude of barracks, the Marine Raiders of Alpha Company were assembled in their training yard. Lined up in formation, they were clad in their armor and had their weapons slung over their shoulder. Each one was well-groomed; their olive drab armor gleamed in the sunlight and their black boots shone.

In lieu of a raised platform, Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing drove a Warthog in front of the company. Standing beside the rear-mounted turret, his hands were folded behind his back and his chest was puffed out. Unlike the troops, he was dressed in a pair of crisp, light green digital camouflage fatigues. In front of the Warthog, Vivian stood beside Major Royce. The latter was dressed to a similar degree to his men, albeit he wore a soft cover officer's cap instead of a helmet. Although she wanted to wear the armor and fatigues given to her by the Marines during the training exercises, she would be assuming command of the _I'm Alone _shortly so she was clad in her gray tunic.

Despite her rigid posture, she was smiling. She was happy, although not just because their operations were about to kick off. Already, the stir crazy, claustrophobic feeling she and many of her subordinates felt was wearing off. Getting back on her ship and thrusting back into the vast reaches of space, searching for juicy targets to destroy, was more than attractive. But she was proud of the Marines standing in front of her. They had truly made an achievement and were they in their dress uniform, their chests would have boasted their commendation and achievement medals for their service and dedication. No longer were they line Marines: they were Raiders, opening a new chapter for UNSC special warfare. They were only going to be an asset for the missions ahead.

Yet, there was pride in herself as well. She did her best to quash it lest it go to her head. But she could not help it in the end. Despite being a Navy captain and her last combat training exercise was back at Luna OCS, she managed to make it through Swing's Raider training. Left tanned, sinewy, and determined, she felt like she could do anything. Alongside Marines who were fighting since they were fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen, she felt as though she proved it to them she was not just a swabbie fit only for the bridge. To the Navy personnel present to witness their version of a graduation, she showed them she had the willpower and physical aptitude to overcome any arduous challenge.

Swing cleared his throat and gazed grimly at the troopers gathered before him.

"God help me," he grumbled, "today, you've become Marine Raiders. You're sorry, piss-poor excuses for Raiders and even worse for Marines. But you've got guts and you managed not to croak during this training. If you're able to survive me, then you probably have a shot of making it through your next firefight with the Covenant. Hell, you'll probably breeze through it! You think them Covvies are tougher than I am?"

"Sir, no, sir!" all the Marine Raiders shouted in unison.

"Damn right," Swing declared, then jumped from the back of the Warthog. "But I know you lot are so stupid you probably couldn't tell the difference between a rock and a hand grenade. Somebody's got to be there to hold your hand and change your diapers. So, with Captain Waters' permission and the approval of the powers that be, I will be coming with you."

If they were not at attention, Vivian knew they would have instantly started talking to one another. Despite the shock plastered on their grizzled faces, the Marines remained stock still. That brought a look of displeasure upon Swing's hardened face. Puffing out his chest and folding his hands behind his back, he surveyed the men with hot, glaring eyes. "Well, sorry if I disappointed ya. Thought you might I appreciate my handsome mug for a little longer. I said I'm coming with you! Does that make you happy!?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" everyone hollered.

"What's my Corps coming to!? Louder, Marines, louder!"

"_Sir, yes, sir!_" they screamed.

"That's what I thought!" Swing said in a haughty tone. "Now, are you ready to unveil our little present to Captain Waters?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

Vivian blinked and looked over at Major Royce. The company commander did not meet her gaze, either because he did notice or he did not care. Still knowing very little about him, Vivian guessed it was the latter. Royce seemed aloof and uncaring, drifting among the company and barely engaging with any of the men under his command. Most of the Marine Raiders did not seem to notice him or even mind his lack of interaction. Perhaps they were just used to his ghostly demeanour. From her past experiences, Vivian was wary of him and viewed him more as Hayes' personal lapdog than a proper Marine officer. There was something off about the majority of staff officers under Hayes' command; like Royce, they were dark, reserved, detached, and extremely loyal to the colonel. It was not so much an expeditionary unit staff than it was a small mafia. While the Marines remained outgoing and colorful, they were removed. Despite the Marines' excellent combat record and their own legend built on the corpses they left at Skopje, she found Royce and his fellow officers far more intimidating.

Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing pointed at Frost. "Front and center, Gunnery Sergeant."

Attentively, Frost stepped out of line and approached the drill instructor. When he stood at attention again, he saluted. Swing returned it, then turned around and faced Vivian. "Captain, if you would," he said, gesturing for her to come over as well.

Vivian slowly approached, unable to feel at ease. Despite their rigid posture, she could see an expectant, amused expression on the face of every other Marine gathered. Was it going to be some kind of phony, special awards scheme they concocted where they humiliated her in the guise of honoring her? Maybe it was less complex and they were just going to play an honest but ultimately harmless joke. If that was the case, she did not mind and she was prepared; it was good for the officers to be at play with enlisted ranks from time to time. She enjoyed it, even; she could maintain her authority while still being among the men and women under her joint command.

Standing just a few paces in front of Frost, she waited. Swing turned to the Gunnery Sergeant. "Alright, hand it over."

Reaching behind him, he took something off his belt and held it forward. It was a scabbard with a knife sheathed within. With an earnest smile, Frost hand it to her with both hands.

Blinking in surprise, she took it gingerly from his outstretched hands. Keeping the flat of the scabbard in one palm, she carefully withdrew part of the blade, exposing the polished, silver metal of the blade.

"Seeing as you completed the training just as much as these sorry excuses for Marines," Swing said, "we thought it was fitting to give you a little something. Your very own KA-BAR knife with a little something extra."

Vivian took the knife all the way out of the scabbard. Instead of the olive drab or brown grip that most possessed, it was black like Frost's. The blade had a silver finish and imprinted on either side were the words 'Semper Fidelis.' Gripping it tightly, she found the weight to be agreeable.

Sliding it back into the scabbard, she smiled at Swing.

"Thank you, Master Guns," she said.

Swing reached over and patted Frost hard on the back.

"We all wanted to get you something, but it was the Gunny who decided what it was. Better than what PFC Grant said. He wanted to get you a rifle-"  
"Sir, that's not what I meant, sir!" came a cry. Swing's eyes shone brightly and he turned sharply around, facing the bulk of the men.

"Don't you ever interrupt me you slimy little sack of shit!" he screamed. "We all have rifles and if the Captain needed one she could just go to the armory! Use your goddamn head!"

Smoothing out his tunic, Swing turned back to Vivian. "But that's a symbol, Captain, representing your training and your status among these ingrates. We're proud to count you as a Raider, Captain Waters."

"I'm proud to be counted among you," Vivian said. She turned to Frost. "Thank you."

A quick smile tugged at his lips, but it quickly faded. Instead, Frost clicked his heels together, raised his chin, and saluted smartly. Her own smile widening, she repeated the gesture. She felt honored and proud, and more so towards the Marines.

Every single one held themselves in a new way; taller, more alert, and with greater pride. Their faces were tanned and leathery, their frames lean and sinewy, having lost the body fat they built up from so many months garrisoned at the Port. They were retrained, well-armed, armored, and eager to get back into the fight. She could see it; when they were still, they were tense, trembling with energy. When they were in the field conducting exercises, they moved quickly and with precision, a combination of pure aggression and focus comparable to a wolf pack. She was eager to see them engage the Covenant.

"Anything you want to add before we jump off, Captain?" Swing asked.

Vivian was not prepared to deliver a speech nor did she think the Marine Raiders needed one. But to leave without offering a few words or making some gesture seemed wrong. So she took the knife out of its scabbard and held it as high as she could.

"Semper Fi!" she cried at the top of her lungs. Much to her surprise, all of the Marine Raiders drew their blades and lifted them skyward.

"Semper Fidelis!" they belted out, their combined voices roaring into the air. Three times, they raised their voices and then punctuated it with, "Waters! Waters! Waters!"

When it was over, they were ordered to break ranks, and they came forward. Everyone wanted to salute Vivian and shake her hand. More than once, she got a sturdy clap on the back. Each one stung worse than the last but Vivian was happy to be accepted by the Marines. She knew the rift between the Marine and Navy personnel was still present, but at the very least she could count on a section of the Marines to play ball. It was not through a nefarious trick or by promising gifts and rewards; it was by her own action and effort.

Before the company could disperse to rejoin the rest of the 89th MEU, the war correspondent, Katz, arrived. Wearing beige cargo pants and a heavy-duty button down top, with only his vest over it, he asked if he could snap a few photographs. The company gathered around into a large semicircle, with the first row crouching and a few laying down in front of them. Everyone held up their KA-BAR knives and flashed wide, toothy grins for the camera. After taking at least five, Katz thanked them and promised the photographs would definitely end up being run through the ringer by ONI Section Two again, but would eventually worm their way back to his magazine.

That made the troops happy, knowing their faces would be plastered across magazines, news footage, and social media. It fed into their egos and Vivian was perfectly alright with that aspect.

Vivian imparted some general praise for the men, made her farewells for the moment, and made her way to the airfield. Weaving through the crowds of manpower waiting their turn for the unit to find space on the airfield and the long convoys of vehicles waiting to be brought up to the fleet, she stopped briefly to speak to knots of officers and enlisted men. From ensigns to commissioned officers, she made sure every single one of her seamen had their gear, ranging from extra pairs of socks and toothpaste to their personal service sidearms.

When she got to the airfield proper, she was excited to see the _I'm Alone _medical staff lining up awaiting transportation on a Pelican. Compared to the colored jerseys of the hangar crews, the gray tunics of the officers, and the olive drab armor and camouflage uniforms of the Marines, their stark white lab coats shone brightly in the sunlight. Most were standing in line, waiting for their turn to board one of the dropships descending on the landing pads. Others were directing orderlies, technicians, and logistical personnel as they carted crates of supplies and equipment towards several Albatrosses.

Standing abreast of the column of medical staff, she searched them for one particular individual. It was not difficult to spot her, considering non-regulation thick, long, black hair tinged with golden locks. Before long, she spotted Lieutenant Commander Jasmine Ebrahimi. Jasmine looked excellent in a new, crisp gray officer uniform and a fresh white lab coat. Her hair was tied in a thick but ultimately neat ponytail and her glasses were pushed up tightly over her eyes. When Vivian approached her, she could see the chief medical officer pouring over a data pad. Switching between different tabs, running down checklists, and occasionally looked up, pointing at different personnel, and speaking to herself, she was utterly focused.

Halfway over to her friend, Vivian stopped. A soft, small smile formed. She enjoyed seeing her this way. Enraptured with her work, diligent in her behavior. Even out of the operating room and her office, she was totally in her element, engrossed, like a proper Navy doctor.

Finally walking over, she stood beside her just to see if she would notice. Jasmine did not for several minutes, looking up between her data pad and her staff. Eventually, when she looked back down her gaze shifted left slightly. She looked up at Vivian and then immediately looked right back down at her data pad. A split second she looked back, gasped, and covered her heart. Vivian laughed and tapped her on the shoulder.

Shaking her head, Jasmine laughed and caught her breathing.

"Is everything going smoothly?" Vivian asked her. Jasmine nodded, and then pointed to one of the ascending Pelicans.

"That one's carrying one of my OR teams. That Albatross there has crates of new medical equipment from syringe packets to patient gowns. It's a smooth operation for now, but there's just _so _many people and _so _much supplies, it's still going to take a while."

"It's a big task unit," Vivian said. She folded her arms across her chest and observed the medical staff. "I remember talking to a lot of the officers from _Batavia _after we pulled the 89th MEU off of Ambition."

"My goodness, that feels like a lifetime ago," Jasmine murmured.

"They said that Captain, what was his name, Howard? No, Harley."

"Hugh."

"Right. Said he mucked up the entire operation. All he had to do was ferry the Marines and their equipment planetside and he couldn't even manage that. I wonder how that fat slob stayed in the Navy, or how he managed to get a commission in the first place."

"Maybe the UNSC has started to sell officer commissions like those empires did way back when, when ocean ships had sails," Jasmine said, shaking her head. "But some people just manage to slip through the cracks and are able to fake it until they get somewhere comfortable."

She turned and gave Vivian a sly smile. "Not everyone can graduate near the top of their class at Luna OCS."

Vivian scoffed and shook her head. Arms akimbo, she watched the medical staff slowly shuffle as another group boarded a Pelican and headed into orbit.

"This is it, Jas," Vivian said wistfully, "we're going to turn the tide of the war here. We're going to take back the initiative and drive the Covenant back. Operation: EXALT is going to grow and grow, they're going to give us more ships and more men to take back more planets. If we can do our part, harass the Covenant flanks, take out their infrastructure, destroy their support facilities, and tie up their fleets, we can let Task Force 519 pierce deeper and deeper into their territory. Everything is going to change."

She reached over, took Jasmine's shoulder, and squeezed it. "I don't know about you, but I have goosebumps."

Jasmine laughed pleasantly for a moment.

"I can see you're feeling right at home already. It'll be good to be back on the _I'm Alone. _Now that we're about to embark, I'm just starting to realize how much I've missed her."

"Having our feet on the ground always feels nice," Vivian started, "but only for a little while. We're Navy officers; the only time we can feel truly at home is when we're encased in titanium exploring the furthest reaches of space. " She nodded her head to the side and grinned boastfully. "And blowing up a Covenant fleet or two. Maybe by the time we're done with this operation, there won't be any Covvies left to shoot."

Jasmine shook her head.

"That'll be the day," she said, unconvinced. Vivian hooked her arm around Jasmine's neck and playfully pulled her closer.

"C'mon, don't be that _one _person who has to be a debbie-downer. This is going to be one hell of an adventure."

Finally, the doctor smiled.

"Yeah, yeah it will."

Another Pelican descended and a notification tone sounded off Jasmine's data pad. Jasmine tapped a key on it then tucked it under her left arm. They turned and faced one another. "Well, I'll see you up there, Captain Waters," Jasmine said, then saluted with a smile. Vivian returned the gesture.

"See you on board, Lieutenant Commander Ebrahimi."

"That's _Doctor _to you, Viv," Jasmine said cheekily before grabbing her kit and jumping on board.

* * *

Dressed in her full BDU, Captain De Vos marched down the hallway with her helmet under her left arm and her M7S submachine gun strapped to her hip. Drifting through the barracks, she used her command override over every single barracks door on the ODST ward. When the keypad light flashed green and the door handle clicked, she opened it and ducked her head inside. All the cots and bunks were devoid of mattresses, sheets, and pillows. Personal items were gone and no gear was left behind. Most importantly, there were no stragglers. Door after door, room after room, she checked and checked, feeling more assured they were not leaving anything or anyone behind.

Eventually, she went up the stairwell and went down the commissioned officer quarters, consisting of single rooms. Overriding the security locks again, she checked them as well. Like the enlisted mens' quarters, these were empty too. De Vos even checked her own quarters, just to be sure. The last room on the left was Major Holst's and she opened it. She nearly jumped out of her boots to find him standing inside.

He was at the window, overlooking the main compound of the Port. His back was straight and his hands were folded behind his back. From the posture of his neck, she could tell his chin was raised slightly. Having served with him for the better part of a decade, she was quick to pick up on his mannerisms. Often, he liked to raise his head and look down his nose at places or people. Some may have found it rude, but De Vos was generally forgiving. She doubted he even realized he was doing it.

"Sir?" she asked. He did not respond, even by gesture. For a moment, she wondered if she did not hear him. "Sir?" she asked again, louder this time.

Holst was silent, but he did raise his hand and wave. De Vos walked in, closing the distance between them. "Sir, I thought you were still out with the men on the airfield. Why are you back here?"

"Nina, I'm worried about this op," he said with a labored sigh.

De Vos hesitated briefly, then walked up beside her commanding officer.

"I understand, sir. We're going deep into hostile territory, we won't have a lot of support, and until we're on the ground we'll be in the hands of the Navy." She smirked. "Personally, I feel much safer among a whole mess of Covvies than a blasted swabbie ship. If I'm going down, I'd rather have some say in it, rather than wait for the damned thing to get blown up."

She glanced at him and she was surprised by his unimpressed expression.

"Nina, c'mon," he said with a slight grin. "I'm not worried about the swabbies, I'm worried about Waters."

He shook his head and folded his arms across his chest. "She's gotten close to the Raiders, those lazy excuses for SOF. We're the preeminent special operators the UNSC has to offer. Not the Rangers, not the Raiders, the _Helljumpers_. I'm not getting sidelined for a bunch of bearded jarheads who think because they did some ruck marches they're hot shit now."

"Sir, I don't think we'll be overshadowed. We'll be working together; the Raiders will be working with us. A force deployable by dropship working in tandem with shock troops like us will make us more effective as a task unit."

Holst shook his head again.

"We should have retaken this planet, not those leathernecks. I goddamn guarantee we would have been able to do it without losing a man. And it wouldn't have taken us as long as it took them. I'm not here to see my troopers get left behind a bunch of upjumped line Marines. We've barely gotten a piece of the action in months while those hounds get their chests lined with medals and ribbons."

Since the mobilization began, De Vos was worried it would come back to this. Holst was a superior officer and knew how to effectively lead his ODST's. To be a commissioned ODST officer was not a small feat. Personally brave with a firm understanding of tactics, an officer who led from the front, was rare to find even in the line units. Day by day, the officer corps efficacy was decreasing. For every decent combat leader coming out of OCS, there were two more who were not prepared for the Covenant. It was not their fault as much as it was a matter of cadets being rushed through the pipeline.

She was thankful to have him as a commanding officer, but the medals reminded her of every time he complained about glory, or rather the lack of it. Already boasting a colorful ribbon rack, he still yearned for more decorations. More and more, her concern that his lust for achievement and accolades was going to cloud his judgement continued to mount.

De Vos sighed quietly.

"Sir, we just need to focus on our men and the mission."

"I am focusing on our men," he answered defensively. "Some of them are discontented too, they want to get back into the action. You'd know that if you actually talked to them."

It cut deep. De Vos knew Holst was well-aware how often she was around the enlisted men. Each day, she ran with them during PT. She practiced at the firing range with them, led them through remedial training, and even broke fraternization regulations just so she could eat with them at the mess tables. Holst did the same, but she knew he was not as active as she was. It was more than aggravating, it was a personal blow. He was her friend and he was accosting her.

De Vos turned and faced them, her brow furrowed. She wanted to hit him.

"Sir, we both know that's not true."

He waved his hand dismissively.

"It's wrong. We shouldn't be treated like this, like second-rate soldiers."

"Sir, permission to speak freely?"

"Granted."

"You need to get your head out of your ass," De Vos said bluntly. Holst turned his head slightly and looked out of the corner of his eye. "There are bigger things than you and me at play here. It's not about medals. I shouldn't have to remind you of that. While we're sitting here yapping, there are Covenant ships burning entire worlds. This operation might be a chance to stop that. Even if it doesn't succeed, we'll be able to deal them a heavy blow they won't quickly recover from."

Holst opened his mouth to speak but De Vos held up her hand. She inhaled sharply and exhaled somewhat loudly. Opening her eyes back up, she maintained a steady, hardened glare at her superior officer. "If medals are what you're really concerned about, I'm sure we'll all have a lot of metal pinned to our chests when this is over, whether or not we're alive. So just do your job and lead these troopers, and you'll get what you want."

For a time, the two officers gazed at one another. Eventually, the senior of the two chuckled and shook his head.

"Damn, Nina," he breathed. "Now I remember why I made you my XO."

De Vos scoffed and looked out the window.

"I like to think it was for my good looks," she said sarcastically, "but I'm quite positive it was because of my CSV and my combat record."

"None of the above," Holst admitted, gripping the chest piece of his BDU with both hands. "I knew if I ever got crushed by the military machine, ever got low, or lost sight of things, you'd be the one to get me back on track."

He reached over and bumped her shoulder pauldron with his fist. "Thanks, Nina. Alright. Alright, alright, alright," he said, patting down his uniform to make sure he had everything. "Let's get outta here and kill some Covvies, huh?"

Grabbing his bag from the floor, he turned on his heel and tramped out of the room. De Vos watched him over her shoulder, a quizzical expression on her face.

That was too easy, she thought to herself.

* * *

"Come on, come on, come on! Load it up so I can get outta here!"

Carris hefted her rucksack and kit bag into the back of the M831 transport Warthog. Instead of passengers, the back of the Hog was filled with backpacks and standard-issue olive drab flight bags. The entire squad was dumping their gear into it. Many other Marine squads filled up Warthogs with their materials. Once a vehicle was full, it drove off to the airfield and delivered its cargo to the quartermasters. Those individuals who tag and organize the equipment before sending it up by Pelican or Albatross to await pickup. When the respective units would get up to the _I'm Alone _or other ship, they would collect their gear and return to their original quarters.

Earlier, men were boarding aircraft with their gear but the compartments were getting too packed. Due to weight limits, some units, even basic ones, could not be transported in waves as originally planned. To maximize the amount of personnel they could bring to the fleet, they were taking up equipment separately. Dedicated transports for men or equipment alone was making the process a little slower but far less confusing.

Clad in her armor, Carris briefly thought about putting her helmet on. Turning it around in her hands, she stared into the orange visor. She could see her reflection, widened and distorted.

Stepping up on the tire, she unzipped her rucksack, which was rather empty, and stuffed it inside. She was not ready to wear it just yet.

Frost, Grant, and Moser finished putting in their bagge, and the former banged the side of the Warthog.

"Take it away Borko, thanks for picking this up," Frost said loudly over the rumbling engine.

"See you up there, big man!" the combat engineer declared and drove off.

Frost checked his watch and smiled.

"We have a little time before our flight comes," he said to the squad, "let's go see Steele and say goodbye."

Everyone agreed and followed the squad leader towards the hospital. Carris lagged behind somewhat, walking a little slower than the others. She looked towards the airfield and saw streams of Pelicans flying skywards. Albatrosses descended towards the planet as well as Darter supply ships.

Goodbye. She was not ready to say it. To leave without him would be like leaving one's hand or arm behind. She was a Spartan, she could handle any enemy and any fight. So many times she faced odds that platoons, even reinforced companies of elite troops would struggle to fend off. Not once did she need a team to help her. But she was gelled with these Marines and their little radio operator. They relied on her, and she could count on them to cover her six. Being among them reminded her of what it was like to train on Reach; being with her team, engaging in competitions and training sessions with the other trainees. Sometimes they won, most of the time they fell just short. Other Spartans were faster, stronger, and luckier. To be among the Marines and hear them banter, chastise one another, and play against one another at chess, checkers, poker, or other games, was just as good. Better, even.

Without Steele, her Louie, it just wouldn't be the same. She was his point of contact, her little connection with whatever sense of normalcy life under the UNSC could offer. Whenever she became deterred or confused, he was there to help her. If someone wanted to jeer at her for her height and stature, he was the first one to defend her.

He felt like he was just for her. She didn't want to give him up, as selfish as it sounded. Carris broke from her thoughts and caught up.

They went into the lobby, got cleared by the clerks, and they were escorted by an Army doctor who was taking over for Jasmine. He led them to the spacious ward which was still mostly vacant. Steele was sitting in bed, this time a little more upright. He was wearing a blue patient's gown and still had an IV in his arm. Over the weeks, his blonde hair had grown longer and thicker, spilling over to the left side of his head. Loose standards were curly and their shade of blonde was so pale, the locks appeared almost white. His mustache was thicker than before and stubble coated his cheeks and chin, which was so dark it was nearly brown.

"Hi, Louie!" Frost greeted enthusiastically.

"They won't let me fucking smoke in here," the sniper complained loudly, "I need a smoke or I'm going to turn inside out."

"You smoke too much anyways, maybe this is a good way to take a break. When you get back into the field, you need to be able to bound. How're you going to bound if your lungs are black and shriveled up like Moser's soul?" Grant asked playfully. Moser frowned, reached over, and slapped the back of his friend's head.

"Shut up," he muttered. Steele snorted but ran his hands over his face.

"I'm so fucking bored. I'd rather walk and feel my ribs ache just to break up the monotony. I haven't laid around this much in years, _years_, it's a load of bollocks."

"You'll heal faster if you stop complaining," Langley said slyly.

"Yeah, it's been medically proven that complaining prolongs the healing process," Knight added.

Steele lowered his hands, pursed his lips, and stared blankly at his friend. Sweeping his gaze back and forth, he eventually sighed.

"I'm sorry I can't go with you," he said. "It's not right to let you go while I stay here, safe."

"No."

"No, man, it's not like that."

Steele shook his head and rested his hand on his side.

"It's not the same. It's not right. You need a sniper. None of you know what to do with that damn rifle. What're you going to do without me? You'll all get yourselves flanked by some Jackals or an Elite will get close enough to use his damned daggers."

He laughed uneasily. It broke Carris's heart. She could see very plainly he was forcing it. His eyes were glimmering and he would quickly run his hands over his face or rub his forehead in an effort to disguise them. Steele's posture became drooping and his expression was pale. The sadness he was feeling seemed to radiate off of him. Staying in the hospital was killing him. Already, she could see his skin tighter in a few places. Whereas the Marines were more sinewy and shed their garrison weight, whereas his was lost from laying around. A tray on the table beside him was covered with half-eaten, nibbled hospital food. The chicken cutlet looked dry and overcooked, the peas were deflated, and the mashed potatoes looked more like a pile of sand.

While the other Marines pushed in and carefully hugged him and uttered a few final words, she hung back. This was no way for a man like Steele to be. Laying in bed, injured, miserable, without his cheeky glance or cocksure smile. This was not the way for him to be. Even if he was going to recover in a few month's time, he would be alone. If he wasn't transferred to another unit, he would be stuck here in limbo. Waiting for news, worrying constantly that his friends were in contact with the enemy.

One by one, the other squad members began to pull away from him. Frost was the last one to approach him. Very carefully, the two embraced. The Gunnery Sergeant was careful to keep his arms above his friend's ribcage. When they parted, she could see the two of them were thick with emotion. Both of their eyes were red and wet.

"Take care, Lou," Frost said with a pitiful sniff.

"Yeah, see you around, Nate," Steele said back, his voice heavy. Frost stood up, turned around, and looked at Carris. He blinked, cleared his throat, and waved his hand.

"C'mon guys, let's give'em a minute." Frost ushered them out, then stepped beside Carris. "Take your time," he said to her, patted her shoulder, and left.

Carris watched him go. She still didn't trust him and her resentment was still as strong as ever. But she was thankful for that sentiment. A token of respect, from a Marine to a petty officer.

She turned and looked at Steele, who was staring at his lap. Carris took a breath, walked over, and crouched down. Steele slowly looked at her and smiled weakly. His eyes were watery.

"Hey C," he said. "I've been doing a lot of thinking, but I don't think I can give you a-"

"No, that's okay. Don't worry," Carris assured him, although it still hurt to know he was not able to talk about it. But she would stay patient and would not push him. "I just came to say...to say..."

She didn't want to say it. Steele seemed to understand.

"Maybe we shouldn't drag this out," he sighed sadly. "I wish you weren't leaving."

"We'll be okay."

"No. Just you. Well, I mean, you especially." He shrugged. "I mean, you know, whatever."

Carris chuckled a little. She stared at him for a time, taking in his narrow face, unshaven face, curly hair, and lackadaisical but bright blue eyes. It was a face that was difficult to forget and she did not want to for that matter.

For a moment, she closed her eyes and lowered her head. When she looked back up, she returned Steele's puzzled expression with a grin.

"Do you want to stay here?"

He grinned.

"No."

###

Carris walked up to the Pelican, where the rest of the squad was already piling in. She carried a supply crate under her arm. Frost reached out to take it.

"Careful, it's heavy. You might need two people."

"I can handle it, whoa! Holy shit, what's in here Carris."

"One of the engineers asked if we could take some of his gear up with us. I figured it was just one crate so I didn't think it was a problem."

"I guess not," Frost said as he heaved the crate up. Carris pushed from the bottom. Moser and Grant took over once it was inside and slid it towards the cockpit. As the hatch closed and the compartment grew dark. The red light cast an eerie glow over the Marines as they waited stoically for the Pelican to lift off. Soon enough, there was a shudder. Soon enough, they heard the steady hum of the engines.

Frost, sitting at the final seat on the right side near the door, smiled at the squad. "We're going home."

Carris nodded and briefly looked at the crate. She smiled and leaned her head back.

The lid burst from the crate and Steele appeared. He gasped loudly and held his side.

"My fucking ribs!" he wheezed.

Everyone but Carris screamed.

* * *

**Words: **6,314

**Pages (Google Docs): **

**Original Font: **PT Serif

**Original Font Size: **11

**Original Line Spacing: **1.5

**Author's Note: **Well, it turns out I died instead of uploading three chapters. I'm now more behind than I ever was before. So you know what, I'm done playing catch up. All I feel is crushed by all this work, and between my laborious job and a multitude of other things I have to do, I haven't had as much time to write. But, I've managed to be more productive this week off-site and this site, especially now that I've completed this chapter. I'm not going to try and catch up anymore; from here on in, I'm going to do my usual one chapter a week so I don't lose my mind. If I miss a week, I might try to double up, but generally if I miss one, I miss one. Sorry if you were expecting more folks.

I'd also like to take a moment to say thank you to all the returning and new readers. Not only have you taken the time out of you days, some of you for _years _now, but you've always been very supportive. I really appreciate the kind words, constructive criticism, and general feedback you all give. And something that really, really means a lot is when I miss a chapter or don't update for a while, I don't get barraged by, 'hurry up and post!' or 'when's the next chapter!' When I spiral into procrastination and self-doubt, you guys let me do it in peace, so thanks for that! Joking aside, it means a lot, because those kind of messages would really make me feel low and pressured, so I appreciate it a lot. I wish there was more I could.

So! With that, if any returning readers are interested, if you go to my DeviantArt profile (RadiationSoap) you can reread the original _I'm Alone _in its original prose format rather than this format. Thanks to Fail4Fun, I have the ability to upload PDF's that look like actual novel pages rather than...whatever this is. So if you want to, take a look, and why not show Fail4Fun some love, she's done a lot for me and this story.

**Comment Responses: **

**MightBeGone: **Well, you shan't be scared for long, because we're finally going to get back into some action...in a couple chapters I guess. Hopefully you'll get some relief soon. Thanks for sticking with me.

**Ctrl-Dalt-Delete: **Nope, no writer's block here. I've had a few questions like these before, and I'll say what I always say: it's not going to stray too far from canon. I've always done my best to be true to the lore and the canon, and insert this story into gaps or untouched areas of the wider story. However this story goes, the canon story will unfolded just as it did in the games. Much love to you, my friend, and please stay extra safe.

**TheCarlosInferno: **Not a bad idea, but I planned for this one. I wanted something less dramatic and without fanfare, as well as a means to explore Carris's growing...less strict side. Someone who is more open to socializing and breaking rules, willing to have fun and defy authority. That's part of Carris's trajectory as a character. Thanks for reading!

**Edgeofdoom: **Hey, if I'm going to name a ship, I'd like it to be be odd and off-the-beaten-path. I think of it more as a the UNSC Navy hitting the Covenant over the head with a frying pan! XD Thanks for reading and commenting!


	18. Chapter 18: The Problem Child

**Sorry for the long wait, but I have some announcements below, be sure to check them out! **

* * *

Chapter 18: The Problem Child

* * *

"Just where do you think you're taking that crate, Marines?"

Frost and his squad halted in the middle of the hangar. Slowly, they all turned around and faced the senior enlisted man on the _I'm Alone. _Command Master Chief Petty Officer Uwem was tall, broad in the chest, bald, clean-shaven, and rippling with muscle. Even in his gray service uniform, his sinewy frame was noticeable. Stomping over to them, he eyed the crate up and down. Frost was carrying it backwards while Grant held it from the opposite side. Carris stood at once side, keeping one hand under it for the sake of balance.

After making a cursory inspection, Uwem stepped aside and folded his hands behind his back. "Why isn't this with the other cargo designated for engineering? Marines shouldn't be handling this kind of equipment."

"Sir, one of the chief engineers below asked us to take it up. There was an issue with loading the cargo and it needed to come up straight away otherwise it would be a logistical nightmare to find it amidst all the other gear," Frost said.

"The Navy thanks you for your assistance, but I think we can handle it from here."

Uwem turned around, caught the attention of one of the crane operators, and waved him off. The crane itself was suspended from the top of the hangar, including the cab, and the operator waved back. Throwing a lever and holding a switch to the side, the crane rattled along its track and came towards them.

Frost exchanged a worried glance with his squad mates. Everyone was mouthing different instructions, lies, and ideas, complemented by a series of desperate gestures towards the crate and Uwem. He was unable to make any of it.

"Sir, he asked us personally to take it to engineering," he quickly said. Grant nodded and smiled while everyone else grew terrified or ran their hands down their faces. CMCPO Uwem looked over his shoulder, glaring menacingly, and then turned around entirely.

"And why would a crew member in engineering task a group of leathernecks to take highly advanced and might I add _expensive _equipment to engineering? Especially when all Marines are supposed to be on Zero Deck and Zero Deck _only _until given other orders? Surely, both the engineer and you are aware of that?"

"Is there a problem?" Commander Solak, the _I'm Alone's _executive officer asked in a smooth tone. His dark hair was neat and trim and his angular face was stern.

"Sir, got me a mess of Marines here trying to take some equipment to engineering. They're supposed to be heading their barracks until given further orders, per Captain Waters and Colonel Hayes' orders."

Solak turned his attention to the Marines. Everyone who could was standing smartly, hands raised in salute. With his hands behind his back, Solak walked around the entire squad, monitoring both them and the crate in the middle of them.

"If you're supposed to take this to engineering, why are you heading towards the barracks?"

"We wanted to drop our own equipment off in the armory first."

"You don't seem to be over-encumbered all that much. If this is all too much for you, then you should leave this equipment with the rest."

"Ah, well, it's not _that _much of an issue, sir."

Solak looked at them, unconvinced, and then exchanged a glance with Uwem. Just then, there was a clatter of machinery and a shower of sparks behind them. Everyone looked at the Pelican the squad disembarked from. Jasper, the pilot, Pajari, the copilot, and the crew chief, Isha, were standing on the deck by the stern of their Pelican. One of the landing struts had given way and the dropship was at a slant and lying on the titanium deck. Multiple deck crew members were rushing over. Soon, people were shouting and issuing orders. Arguments broke out.

Uwem and Solak looked at one another, then at the Marines.

"Whatever this is, take care of it and report to your barracks as soon as possible," Solak ordered, pointing threateningly at them. He then walked briskly towards the Pelican. Uwem hesitated, glaring at the Marines. After looking at one another, they all smiled at him. Annoyed, he growled, turned on his heel, and followed the executive officer.

The squad lingered and looked at the Pelican. After Solak and Uwem arrived and began speaking to some of the deck crew, Jasper, Pajari, and Isha took several steps back, as if they were about to start working on the Pelican. Instead, they all turned towards the squad, grinned devilishly, and gave a 'thumbs-up,' gesture. Isha gave two and then waved them on.

"Bless them, simply, bless them," Moser exclaimed.

"C'mon, c'mon, let's go," Frost hissed. Quickly, they hurried down the corridor, stampeded through the armory, and eventually returned to their barracks: B100. All the bunks were furnished with fresh olive drab blankets and white sheets. The lockers were open and empty.

"Oh, I thought we'd never see it again!" Grant exclaimed. "I've never been so happy to see a Navy bunk room in all my life."

Moser hit the door switch and it hissed shut. Carris removed the lid of the crate and Steele popped out. He clutched his side.

"Remind me to ask for qualified stretcher bearers if I'm ever wounded," he groaned. Carris carefully picked up and carried him bridal style over to his old bunk.

"Should we get you anything for the pain?"

"I think we should limit breaking into the pharmacy to one time," Knight suggested, staying by the door just in case somebody decided to come in unannounced.

"I can't take it," Steele said through his teeth. Frost watched as he reached up and patted Carris on the cheek. "Thanks, love."

Frost took off his helmet and ran his hand through his light brown hair. Averting his gaze, steadily growing angrier, he began to grit his teeth. As the others began to jovially speak to Steele, asking how he managed to get into the crate or how Carris managed to get him past the quartermasters, he began to fume. Unable to bear it, he stormed through the squad, pushed them aside, and stood over Steele's bunk.

"What do you think you're doing? You're supposed to be planetside convalescing, not on the _I'm Alone. _Do you honestly think you're going to get away with this?"

"Relax, bruv, relax. By the time anyone notices I'm here, we'll be underway. What's Waters going to do then, slipspace jump all the way back here and drop me off?"

Grinning triumphantly, he laid back comfortably and slid his hands underneath his head. He opened one eye. Frost was still glaring down at him, his gray eyes alight.

"Did you just..._magically _forget how discipline works in the military? You're my second and your behavior doesn't just reflect on you, it reflects on me! Do you know how much heat I'm going to get for this?"

"Oh, your Hayes' star pupil, he won't get mad at you. The old man will probably laugh. Call it a successful insertion, wouldn't he?"

"He's not the only officer I have to deal with once thi gets out! Waters will be pissed with me, Solak and Uwem will be on our case for lying right to their faces, and then I have to explain to Jasmine, the chief medical officer _and _my girlfriend, that one of my Marines disobeyed a direct order and smuggled himself on board the ship!"

"Wow, you came right out and said she was your girl," Grant started, "I thought it was going to be a few more months before we heard—"

"Shut the fuck up I'm talking right now!" Frost hollered at him, wide-eyed and exasperated. Grant recoiled and held up both hands as if he was surrendering. He pointed down at Steele. "This is the last thing I need right now before one of the most dangerous operations we've ever pulled off. I don't need you fucking us up in the field, fucking up my career, or fucking up my life, Lou!"

He whirled, marched up to Carris, and pointed up at her. "You have no idea how disappointed I am in you. And I _know_—" he snapped, pointing a finger at Moser who was just raising his hand to talk, "—this isn't the first time we've broken the rules like this. Back then, we might as well have been kids, we didn't have the responsibilities like we do now. We're SOF operators now, we're not just grunts."

He resumed pointing at Carris. "You're a member of this squad. I always wanted that, so you could feel at home with us. But this kind of behavior is unacceptable. By ignoring Jasmine's orders you've put me in a tight spot and I'm not going to get out of this without repercussions." His arm fell to his side and he looked at his boots. "In more ways than one," he murmured.

Tense quiet fell over the squad. Nobody spoke, gestured, or even looked at one another. Steele maintained a shocked and agitated glare on Frost. Carris, at first, recoiled. But soon her own gaze fell.

"Nate—" Steele said, sitting up and taking his wrist. Frost angrily ripped his hand away from his. He turned around, teeth clenched, fists balled up.

"I don't want to hear it, Lou! You're the worst Marine in this entire squad, no, this entire unit! Ever since basic, I've been covering and carrying your ass! Every infraction you've committed I've fibbed, lied, and covered for you! You flunked out of nearly everything except Scout Sniper School! You messed up so much you fucked over Teo's career, and now you're fucking me over too! I've had it!"

Frost huffed and stood back up. Steele was looking at him, his deep blue eyes wide and hurt. "This isn't a game, anymore!" He looked around at the entire squad. "Think of how many times we've almost gotten killed. You think that's just going to stop? Get your fucking heads out of your asses and get ready, because we're getting into the shit this time."

"Nate, calm down, I'm pretty sure if we can take back a planet we can handle whatever the Covenant's got waiting for us," Grant said.

"We'll be supporting Operation: Exalt too, not participating in it. Raids, hit-and-run, diversionary tactics, stuff we can handle," Langley offered.

"That doesn't minimize our risk, that maximizes it!" Frost covered his eyes, then rubbed his temples. He took a deep breath and looked around. "You're all Marine Raiders now, we're the first Marines in centuries to bear that title, and our actions on and off the field are going to determine whether we revive the unit entirely. And _this _is the first thing you do? I can't believe it. Stop acting like a bunch of fucking kids and act like Marines."

Frost headed towards the door. "Stow whatever you need to here and then let's get to the armory to deposit our other gear. On the double."

He raised his hand to the door control.

"I'm surprised, Gunnery Sergeant Frost," Carris began, causing Frost's hand to freeze in front of the control pad. "You have the nerve to stand there and lecture us for defying orders. But haven't you done anything similarly recently, Gunny? Bucked orders? Violated the rules and regs? Surely, you haven't forgotten already."

His heart caught in his throat and he could hear it thumping in his ears. He became afraid to turn around. His eyes widened as the door slid away from him, the titanium bulkheads broke down, and he found himself standing in snow. As the winds whipped around, he saw the dark lumps lying in the fresh snow and frozen mud. Steam role from the bloody bullet holes covering their bodies. Singed flesh and gunpowder assaulted his nostrils. Such scents were familiar to him, even sweet to him, but as his teeth chattered and his eyes began to grow, he felt as though he would vomit.

"Nate, what is she talking about?" Grant's voice broke the vision. Frost blinked and found himself back on the _I'm Alone. _To see the gray titanium bulkheads again gave him great comfort. Taking a deep breath, he turned around. The entire squad was looking at him, confused. Eventually, all their gazes turned and fell on Carris. She was still standing by Steele's bunk, her shoulders set, hands balled into fists, her head slightly down as if she was about to charge into a squad of Covenant. Her black hair fell around her face but her bright blue eyes burned brightly. Both her hands were clenched so tightly they were shaking, even with her armor on. Her lips were drawn almost into a snarl, like a growling dog getting ready to lunge at a trespasser.

Concerned, the squad exchanged a series of glances. Langley stepped up to her.

"What do you mean?"

That's when Frost noticed a small, quick gesture. With great effort, Steele sat up. His face contorted in pain and it took everything he had not to make any sound. Gripping his ribs with one hand, he reached forward and took Carris's wrist with the other. He did not squeeze or pull, but he stared up at the back of her head. Both his eyes were wide, serious, and pleading.

Carris's hands opened and she stood up straighter. Her snarl disappeared and her eyes grew softer. Clearing his throat and taking her hand from Steele's, she looked down at Langley.

"He said it himself, Nora. He's carrying on a relationship with a commissioned officer on a Navy ship. Regulations dictate there are to be no such relationships between personnel regardless of rank or status, in any UNSC facility or ship. I think it's quite unfair that he should criticize Louis and myself for violating the rules and regs when he himself is doing the same thing, except the rules he's breaking are on a different page."

"Well, nobody takes that rule seriously. I mean, one way or another, we've all done it," Bishop offered. This earned him a scathing series of glares from Langley, Knight, Moser, and Maddox. The pointman held up his hands defensively. "Alright, alright, some of us."

"It makes sense though," Moser said and faced Frost. "Carris does have a point, Nate. You're being a little unfair."

"Smuggling an injured Marine on a Navy ship, lying to superior officers, and violating orders seems to be a far cry from having a relationship with another service member," Frost growled.

"Still, it's an infraction, one way or another," Moser said, "I don't think you should be so quick to judge."

Frost pointed at him.

"I don't need to get lectured by a private, Moser."

"I'm not speaking as a private, I'm speaking as your friend," the rifleman said sternly. Frost groaned and ran his hand over his face.

"Stow your belongings and get your equipment to the armory. Let's go," Frost grumbled and headed for the door.

"Wait, are you going to tell the Doc?" Steele asked from his bunk. Frost, who already opened the door and was standing on the threshold, did not look back. Sighing heavily, he shook his head.

"Not yet. Let's go."

Frost did not wait for them to follow. Marching down the middle of the corridor, Marines dressed in their green fatigues, passed by him on either. It was like striding in the center of a river and the rapids were passing on either side of him. All of the Marines, known to him for so many years, suddenly seemed faceless. Then, he realized, it was not so much they were faceless as he couldn't make out their faces. Tears filled his eyes and he could hardly see. Sniffing, he wiped at them with the back of his hands. Try as he might to hold them back, he could not contain them. Of fear, guilt, or happiness, he could not tell but they came on and on, unabated. They didn't stop until he came to the armory and began stripping off his gear. A squad leader couldn't cry in front of his Marines.

* * *

Jasmine exited the elevator and made her way onto the bridge. To see the _I'm Alone's _cavernous command center was like walking into a memory. On either side were huge tactical screens suspended like tapestries. All the bulkheads were lined with terminals, monitors, and work stations for all the bridge staff. In the center was Vivian's control panel and to its immediate right was the executive officer's station. To the left was the senior enlisted man's station. By the center console, at the majority of stations, and Vivian's station were AI pedestals.

To the diagonal left and right of the commanding officer's station was the communications and operations terminals, respectively. Lieutenant Koroma was already at her console, monitoring the communications channels between the _I'm Alone _and the other ships in the task force. As she worked, she brushed some of her dreadlocks aside and her brown eyes ran back and forth across the readouts on her screen. At operations, Lieutenant Tsang was observing a series of data; the amount of personnel already on the _I'm Alone_ and other ships, the percentage of cargo arriving at the hangars on Zero Deck, power stability from the reactors in engineering, and similar information. The wiry, angled man sat back in his seat, almost relaxed, but continued to work diligently.

In front of him was Lieutenant Sosa, scarred and serious as ever. Sitting at the navigation console, she projected potential vectors away from the orbital dockyard to prime slipspace jump points. Several were already selected and she sent the data to Vivian's terminal, which promptly pinged. To her left was the weapons station, manned by the fiery haired and broad chested Bassot. He too was running projections for the two MAC guns and seemed excited by the feedback the tests were giving him.

On the port side of the bridge, Lieutenant Delany from the ONI Section-One intelligence team was conferring with Vivian. The dark haired Lakota appeared to be in good spirits as he pooled over two data pads with the commanding officer. They shared a few words which were drowned out by the other voices on the bridge and the ship's intercom. After he sat back down at his station, Vivian began walking back towards her station. She caught Jasmine's eyes, smiled, and walked over.

"Lieutenant Commander," she greeted. Jasmine saluted.

"Captain." Vivian saluted back and the pair dropped their arms. Vivian stood beside her and looked out at the bridge. "Good to be back?" Jasmine asked.

"More than good. It's like being home," Vivian said. "The _I'm Alone_ is running very well already. All systems are nominal, the reactors are in excellent condition, all of our weapons, electrical and cyberwarfare suites have been overhauled and upgraded, and the boarding process is ahead of schedule. We might be able to steam out of port early."

Suddenly, a blue light flashed at the AI pedestal at the commanding officer's station. The_ I'm Alone's _artificial intelligence unit, Commodore Stephen Decatur, appeared. With much spectacle and fanfare, he doffed his cap, held it on his chest, and bowed nimbly. After holding the pose for a few moments, he stood back up and placed his hat upon his curly, holographic hairs.

"Welcome back to the _I'm Alone_, Dr. Ebrahimi!" he said in a jovial voice, holding the lapels of his 19th Century United States Navy jacket. "I am positively delighted to see you!"

Jasmine smiled, walked up to the pedestal, and bent over, resting her hands on her knees.

"And hello to you, Commodore," she greeted, "I'm happy to see you too. It's been too long."

"Much too long indeed, we'll have to catch up, won't we? I would just love to assist you in compiling your records, taking stock of our medical stores, and registering all the equipment throughout our wards."

Jasmine giggled.

"Yes, that sounds like a lot of fun. I can't think of a better way for us to reconnect."

Decatur beamed proudly. Resting his hand on the pommel of his sword, he turned to Vivian.

"Captain Waters, Commander Solak asked me to inform you that all of the _I'm Alone's _engineering staff are aboard and are at their stations. Lieutenant Commander Burgess has already selected a staff for the slipspace jump skeleton crew and has sent a copy to your station for review."

"Has he placed himself among the skeleton crew?" Vivian asked, quirking an eyebrow, smirking, and folding her arms across her chest.

"Indeed he has!"

"That man is going to die from old age before he ever gets discharged from the Navy," Vivian whispered to Jasmine, who laughed. "Thank you Decatur. Is there anything else I need to know?"

"Nothing beyond a brief muck-up in the hangar."

"Is it bad?"

"A Pelican dropship's landing gear suffered a malfunction, but it only proved to be a superficial problem and there were no casualties. Our able mechanics were able to repair the damage to the Pelican and it's continuing to take part in the boarding process." Vivian and Jasmine exchanged a glance. Decatur cleared his throat, again, something Jasmine found utterly amusing on the part of a holographic projection of an artificial intelligence. "Fear not, ma'am, tis' hardly a bad omen for a voyage."

Vivian chuckled and approached her console.

"Don't worry Decatur, I've never been one for superstition."

"Neither have I!" he declared. "We shall shove off within the hour!" With that, he winked away. Vivian turned around, arms akimbo. A happy smile tugged at her lips.

"How're things in medical, Jas?"

"Running very smoothly. Most of my staff is already aboard, our stores are packed up tight, everything is battened down for the jump. I took a moment to swing by Cryo and checked in with the staff there. They're running ahead of schedule too and have nearly everything ready. I just have to do a few more administrative tasks, mainly filing my offices' reports on the staff and the last of our equipment. After that, we'll be ready for cryo."

"Excellent, absolutely excellent," Vivian said. The _I'm Alone's _master approached Jasmine and took her by the shoulders. "I've got a really good feeling about this. We've been on the beach for way too long and now we're back in our domain. We've got great ships and great crews; all the remedial training, all of the tests and simulations are paying off. You can feel it, can't you?"

In a tight, cohesive unit, morale was like a virus. When it was low, it was a tangible force that could be seen and felt from every individual of the crew. Just as well, when it was high, it was very visible. Throughout her walk through the long, bustling corridors of the _I'm Alone_, Jasmine saw everyone moving with a purpose. Their voices were loud, robust, full of life, and commanding. Nobody stopped moving when they spoke, nobody questioned an order, everybody was busy with some kind of task. Marines were hurrying to and fro, their noncommissioned officers barking at them to move quickly. There was no idle chatter and no admonishment between the enlisted ranks. Even the lowest private or able seaman felt the purpose of their mission and were doing their best to expedite the departure process.

To see the entire crew, from the Marines to the Navy crew, from the attached Air Force personnel and the Army liaisons, moving as one living, breathing, moving, being, made Jasmine's heart swell. It was not often she felt the pride the Navy and sister services of the UNSC instilled into their personnel through months and years of training. She was prideful of her work as a doctor, happy to do it, and felt it was a duty separated from her expectations as a Navy officer. Yet, to not only see but to _feel _the crew of the ship working together, to feel their motivation, made her feel that fleeting pride.

Instinctively, she inhaled, as if she could smell or taste that feeling. All she could was the clean detergent of Vivian's uniform, her own standard-issue soap, and the stark, sterile environment of the _I'm Alone. _

Vivian's emerald eyes sparkled. "You can feel it, can't you?" Jasmine, smiling tenderly, eagerly nodded. The captain squeezed the doctor's shoulders.

"I'm glad to go with you, Viv," Jasmine said resolutely. "I wouldn't want to be on any other ship under any other officer."

"I'm happy you're here, Jas," Vivian said, the twinkle in her eyes seeming to brighten. "Really, really happy."

She suddenly looked over her shoulder. None of the other bridge officers were looking their way, but Vivian grew bashful anyways. A slightly blush crossed her tanned, freckled face. Letting her hands drop, she stood up straight and saluted.

"Doctor," she said. Jasmine beamed and saluted back.

"Captain."

"To your post!" Vivian said loudly, as if she was a theatre performer. "Everyone, to their posts!" For added effect, she threw her hand in the air like a maestro. The entire bridge crew all shouted, 'Aye, Captain,' and carried on their work with greater vigor. With a final small, friendly wave to her friend, Jasmine went back to the corridor.

She passed through throngs of ensigns, able seamen, and officers making up the thousands of crew members already aboard the _I'm Alone. _After riding a packed elevator back down to Zero Deck, past the hangars amidships, she journeyed back to the infirmary. She strolled through the offices, the operating wards, the advanced facilities, and the medical bays. Everything was orderly, from the personnel swarming in and out of the chambers to the equipment beside every cot. Everything met her specifications and orders.

It was an extended, thorough inspection and she took time to speak to almost all her chief officers, surgeons, physicians, specialists, and technicians. By the time she finished, the last of her personnel arrived and became situated. As well, the final stores of equipment were on board and stowed away.

Concluding her inspection, she went to her office to check it over one more time. As she walked, the ship's intercom chimed.

"Now hear this, now hear this," came Vivian's commanding voice, "We will be departing in twenty minutes. All non-essential personnel proceed to Cryonics immediately. Skeleton crew, remain at your posts."

Jasmine arrived at her office. Beside it was the placard, 'Lieutenant Commander Ebrahimi, J. Medical Officer.' She opened the door and was surprised to see a Marine in light green, digital camouflage fatigues sitting at her desk. His head hung very low and his hands rested on the arms. For a moment, she thought he was sleeping. But upon hearing the door hiss shut behind her, he raised his head quickly.

"Nate!" she greeted happily. "What are you doing here? You should be on your way to Cryo."

Frost only smiled as he stood and walked in front of the desk. Jasmine took off her white lab, leaving her in her olive drab sweater, and tossed it onto the armchair to her immediate right. Then, she took a few quick steps across the office, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him. When they parted, she giggled and rubbed her nose against his. Her glasses slid down her nose and bumped against his. Keeping one arm around his neck, she reclined somewhat and fixed them. When she did, she finally noticed the solemn expression in his misty gray eyes.

Jasmine's smile faded. "What's wrong?" she asked, immediately worried.

"I have some bad news," he said after a moment's hesitation. "You ordered Steele to recover at the hospital planetside. But, he's..."

Jasmine pursed her lips, let go of him, and took a step back. She inhaled sharply.

"He's on the ship."

Frost's head hung again and he wrung his hands together.

"I'm sorry," he said. Jasmine began rubbing her forehead with one hand, turned, and began pacing.

"I know what goes on here in medical might be very far from the minds of Marines and other members of this ship, but I have absolute authority in all medical matters, from who is in surgery to treatment for patients. I _personally _treated Corporal Steele, I gave very explicit instructions for his recovery, and yet they've been ignored. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, since it was Steele himself who broke you out of my infirmary over a year ago. I told you to police that kind of behavior."

She turned, folded her arms across her chest, and faced him. "Who helped him? I doubt he was able to sneak out himself with his ribs in that condition."

"It was me," Frost said quickly. Jasmine wrinkled her nose.

"Please don't lie to me, Nathaniel."

Frost blinked, looked down at his feet, and sighed.

"Carris. By the time we realized he was on the Pelican we were halfway up to the ship."

"Carris? Of all people?" Jasmine groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Unbelievable. Your squad I could expect—"

"Hey..."

"—but her?"

"She is a member of the squad," Frost insisted. "I already cussed her and the others up and down. I'm upset about this too, Jas. We said our goodbyes and accepted what you had to say. We didn't plan any of this."

"Nate, you're an NCO, you're supposed to stop things like these from happening. This kind of behavior is really bad for discipline. Raiding my pharmacy and stealing one of my patients was bad enough. Smuggling another patient onboard a ship slated for special activities?"

"I know it's bad."

"Now, after this jump I'm going to have to be the one who marches up to Vivian and tell her a man was smuggled onto her ship. Because he's a patient, that makes him my responsibility, so do you know what kind of chewing out I'm going to get? From my best friend, no less?"

"I get it, believe me."

"More importantly, we're talking about a man's recovery. Think of the kind of damage he sustained on the way up. Was on any medication? Was he on a stretcher?"

Frost wrung his hands together again and his eyes darted from her's. He shrugged sheepishly.

"He came up...in a...crate."

"A _what_?" Jasmine asked, bending over slightly, cocking her head towards him, and placing her hands on her hips.

"A supply crate."

"A crate!?" Jasmine shrieked. "A crate!? What size?"

Frost held his hand up to his waist.

"The ones this tall, four by four, roughly."

Jasmine threw her arms into the air.

"Unbelievable! You crammed an injured, six foot three adult with fractured ribs into a box." She began pacing again. "I can admire from a tactical standpoint you were able to infiltrate a heavy tonnage, fully-manned UNSC super heavy cruiser by _hiding a man in a box _but as a doctor this is extremely detrimental to his health. That could impact the healing process for his ribs. Do you know what kind of problems he'll have if those don't mend correctly?"

"No...?" Frost tendered.

"They tend to be pretty bad!" Jasmine said, exasperated. "You could have sent him _right _back down to the Port on that Pelican and this wouldn't even be an issue. Instead, you just rolled with it, didn't you?"

"Yeah, yeah I did," Frost admitted, clearly ashamed. "I already reprimanded Carris, Steele and the entire squad." He swung his arms out in an exaggerated shrug and let them fall against his sides. "Look, I'm angry too, not just because of the tight spot they put me in but also because of his health. But Jas, he's my best friend. Even if he is a _massive _pain in my ass. Going without him would be like going without my hand. I trust him, I rely on him." He chuckled a little and shook his head slowly. "I don't really know why. He's not a very good Marine."

Jasmine sighed and pushed her glasses back up her nose.

"I understand. I wanted him to come too, for your sake. But I made a decision based on his health and what kind of demands we'll have in the fields. You completely circumvented my authority on this issue."

Jasmine walked over to Frost and took his hands in her's. "Nate," she started, smiling in exasperation. "I'm absolutely crazy about you."

Frost blinked, smiled, and squeezed her hands.

"Trust me, I'm head over heels for you too," he said sweetly.

"But that doesn't mean this—" she pointed to the golden oak leaf on her collar, "—is irrelevant. I still outrank you and you're not trained in medicine. You have to respect my authority in these matters."

Frost nodded.

"I totally agree with you. I'll do better from now on, I promise." Frost took his hands from her and hugged her. He buried his face into her neck. "I'm really sorry," he said, his voice somewhat muffled. "It won't happen again."

Jasmine hugged him back.

"Thank you," she said. When they parted, she held up a finger. "But, I'm going to have words with Steele _and _Carris once our jump is over."

"Please, _please_, have words with them. I don't know how much of what I said stuck. I got really angry with them."

"Well," Jasmine said in a threatening voice. "They haven't seen anger just yet. I'll straighten them out." Frost whistled, then chuckled.

"I'm scared for them, now."

"They should be."

The intercom chimed again.

"Now hear this, now hear this," came Commander Solak's voice. "All non-essential personnel who have not yet proceeded to Cryo proceed immediately. Slipspace jump will be commencing in ten minutes. Repeat, slipspace jump in ten minutes."

Jasmine sighed and looked back at Frost. She stood on the tips of her toes and planted a little kiss on his lips.

"Take me to Steele and let's get him to Cryo. We'll get a stretcher on the way and take him there ourselves. I don't want anyone trying to carry him or trying to support him. We'll get him into his pod and I'll send orders for a team to handle him the moment we've exited slispace. Then, he'll be taken to medical and he will _stay _there until he recovers, understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," Frost said without any hint of sarcasm.

"Now, c'mon, let's go get frozen."

"You think they make a Cryo pod for two?"

"Sounds cozy..."

* * *

Vivian sat in the captain's chair, hands resting on the console's dashboard. Looking out the forward bridge glass, she observed Travers' great fleet of silver warships twinkling in the darkness of space. Immediately in front of her were her own warships, _Batavia, Lion's Den, Determined Guardian, _and _Best of the Best_. All that was missing was _River Styx_, waiting for them at their destination.

"Captain Waters," Koroma said, turning in her seat, "Vice Admiral Travers is hailing us."

"Establish a video feed, Lieutenant."

"Aye, Captain."

Koroma's hands danced across her console and the large, suspended screen on the starboard side of the bridge turned black briefly. Vivian turned her chair to face it and stood up. A moment later, the bearded senior officer appeared, standing on the bridge of his own ship.

"Vice Admiral," Vivian greeted, and saluted.

"Captain," he said, raising his one arm. "Are you ready?"

"We're battening down the last hatches as we speak, sir. The _I'm Alone _and the rest of my forces are prepared to jump."

"We're ready, too," Travers said, tucking his hand into his trouser pocket. "We'll be doing great things together, Captain Waters, even if we aren't in the same system. This is the first major offensive of the year and we're going to make one hell of a splash. The UNSC will finally be able to deal a major blow to the Covenant through conventional means, not through clever tricks and pyrrhic victories. Today marks the beginning, when humanity took back the initiative, and saved itself from total annihilation. Are you with me, Captain Waters?"

"With you, Vice Admiral. We'll keep the Covenant off your back."

"I know you will. Smooth sailing, Captain." Travers saluted.

"Same to you, sir," Vivian saluted back and the feed ended. She sat back down and looked at the main fleet. The vast array of heavy warships began moving together. Then, a series of blue lights flashed in front of them. One by one, the ships winked away. When the blue lights left, the field of space in front of the _I'm Alone _and her fellow ships was empty.

"Captain, all personnel are aboard and our cargo is stored," Tsang sounded off.

"We're green across the board," Sosa added. "We've got confirmation from Anchor XX, we're cleared for departure. Plotting slipspace vector and sending coordinates for other ships."

Vivian breathed in slowly and deeply. She gazed out at space and her other ships. Then, she surveyed the entire bridge. One by one, all of the bridge officers turned to look at her. Even Decatur appeared on his pedestal, faced Vivian, and stood at attention.

"Lieutenant Koroma, establish a comm-link between the _I'm Alone _and the rest of the task force."

"Aye ma'am..." her fingers tapped a few keys. "...you're patched in."

"This is Captain Waters to all personnel of the First Combined Battle Group. Our operations have been brief but has been characterized by diligence, achievement, and the violence of action expected of the United Nation Space Command Navy. Despite it all, we have not won this war. But before us lies the enemy and if we fight together as we always have, we just might turn the tide." She paused, impressively. "We are not the writers of history: we are the history makers. Come with me, and we'll make a little more. For humanity, and for the UNSC. Forward."

She nodded at Koroma, who ended the link. "Lieutenant Sosa, take us out." Slowly, the navigation officer nodded.

"Aye, Captain," she said.

With a shudder, the _I'm Alone _began to glide past the other ships. Before long, the ship was at the head of the pack and was well away from the anchor.

"Jump on my mark," Vivian ordered, closing her eyes. "Three..." In front of the _I'm Alone_, space ruptured. Blue electricity crackled across and soon a white-blue vortex appeared. "...two..." She felt the tension of not just the crew but the _I'm Alone _itself. It was as if the ship was alive. "...three." Vivian opened her eyes. "Mark."

* * *

**Words: **6,422

**Pages (Google Docs): **16

**Original Font: **PT Serif

**Original Font Size: **11

**Original Line Spacing: **1.5

**Author's Note: **Hello folks, it's been a while since the last update. At the time, I was hoping to jump back into my work but I was slammed with my real job not long after that. Burnout has always been a big issue and I just needed an immediate disconnect from my long-running projects on this site. Really, I just needed a disconnect from the site in general, which is why I haven't been responding to messages or forum posts. I just needed to do smaller work on DeviantArt.

But I'm back and I'm more determined than I was before, even with more work ahead of me. I apologize for not being more vocal about it, but it's hard to communicate what I'm going through on this site and I'm not one to fill up my DeviantArt profile with journal posts anyways. After I post this I'll get back to any pending messages and posts.

What I do have, besides this fresh chapter, are some announcements.

**New Story: **Any of you who follow me on this site probably saw I posted the first chapter to a new _Halo_-fic entitled, _To Be Brave. To Be Brave _is set in the year 2523, two years before the start of the Human-Covenant War, and deals with the Insurrection on an Outer Colony planet. This story is going to have less levity than _I'm Alone_, which is saying something, and is heavily inspired by contemporary socio-political events. The story will have a tight cast, several POV characters, and will be focused on themes of protest, treason, loyalty, obedience, and morality. I'll have some more information about this story on my forum if anyone's interested. But I will say I'm very excited about it, I'll have the second chapter up next week, and that for the time being I'll be updating it on a biweekly basis until I have more control of my upload schedule.

**I'm Alone: Re-Edited: **I briefly mentioned in the last chapter that I've been re-editing and converting the original _I'm Alone _to PDF format and uploading it to DeviantArt. This has actually become a much bigger project; I've been cutting down a lot of excess prose, shortening chapters, changed certain scenes to be more lore-friendly, and improved the dialogue and overall quality. Granted, the main plot events won't be changed but the story is greatly improved mechanically. It's more mature, let's say that. If anyone's interested, you can go check it out on my profile: RadiationSoap. I haven't uploaded it here because people still read the original story and I don't want to touch that, and I don't really see the point in uploading an edited version to this site separately, but what do you guys think?

**Fail4Fun: **We all know who that is, that's the lovely artist who's made pictures and covers for this story! She's a damn good friend and very supportive. I just wanted to take the time here, seeing as she's supported me and my work for so long, to say that Fun's been making a _Stardew Valley _comic on DeviantArt. At present, there are four strips in total, but there's more to come and it's a very good read. You'll find a dry sense of humor, a socially inept protagonist, and the characters of the game that you know and love...if you play it that is. Fun's helped us a lot, so always be sure to head over to her profile on DA and support those projects.

**New Humor Series: **Also on DeviantArt, I've begun a humor series. Can you believe it? An unfunny person started a humor series! Basically, I select one or more obscure fairy tales and than retell it, except with a lot more swearing, dumb running jokes, literary criticism, and existential dread. If anyone's interested, you can find it by going to my profile (RadiationSoap) hitting the 'Gallery' tab, and use the arrows to to find and select the Humor Folder.

**Shout-Out: **Just a brief shout-out to TheShadeOps for making a couple stills from the story using ArmA assets. I really appreciate that! If anybody's interested, you can find them on DeviantArt at the profile 'shadeops21.' I don't know if TheShadeOps will make anymore, but if any of you out there like ArmA 3 and have the Operation: Trebuchet mod, why not send the fellow a message and connect?

**DevianArt FanFiction Groups: **I recently became an admin on an DeviantArt fanfic group called TheFanfictionFuture. It's a small group, still growing, and they didn't ask me to put the word out, but I thought I'd do them a solid since I've been posting in it for a while and talk about them here. If anybody's interested in writing some fanfiction and taking their work to other sites behind there, why not visit DA and see if that group, or some of the other fanfic groups there, are for you. With TheFanfictionFuture, you just need an account, ask to join the group, and then you can post as long as you follow the guidelines. If anybody wants some more info or some leads, please feel free to PM me on this and I'll give you some groups I personally post in. Just be sure in the title of your PM you put something like 'DA Groups,' or 'DA Fanfics,' something like that.

Alright, I've hemmed and hawed enough. Let's get to the comment responses! Who's first, gosh dang it!

**TheCarlosInferno: **Steele has become a much more dynamic, important character than I ever thought he would, and there was no way I was going to leave him and his development behind while the rest of the cast go on missions. He's too much fun! Not to mention he gives the story some needed levity and crass humor when things get rough. Don't worry, our boy isn't going anywhere anytime soon. Appreciate your patience, thanks man.

**Edgeofdoom: **Ha, I thought so too! I don't think it would have worked with any other character than Steele. I figured that would get a laugh or at least deliver a pleasant image. Glad it did; thanks for your patience, I appreciate that!

**Ctrl-Dalt-Delete: **That's very encouraging to hear, thank you so much, and I'm very grateful that you and others take the time out of your day to read the stories I write. Yes, in this story's effort to remain lore-friendly, we shall see that. I'd say more but then I'd get into spoiler territory! Thanks again, and you stay safe yourself.

**Caver Floyd: **Well, I think this chapter probably answered your question! Wish I could say more, but this little arc/development will be addressed in coming chapters as well. Thanks for your patience and for reading.

**MightBeGone: **Glad you did, I did too! I'm not so sure about my skills with comedy but I appreciate that nonetheless. Thanks again for sticking with me and for reading!

**Dairene: **Yep, we've got Steele's MO down pretty tight, haven't we? If anybody's going to buck rules and regs, it's going to be him. Thanks for reading and for your patience, I appreciate it.

Alright guys, that's it. Stay safe out there. Talk to you soon.


	19. Chapter 19: The First Raid, Pt 1

Chapter 19: The First Raid, Pt. 1

* * *

There was darkness, a bright white light, and a terrified face in that beam. A voice, demented, distorted, inhumane, screamed something. When the being in the light did not respond, she began to shudder. Blood appeared on her chest and splattered on the wall behind her. It was as if she was being shot but there was no sound, no muzzle flash, and no tinkling of spent cartridges falling onto the floorboards. Blood was everywhere. A figure darted into the room; he was not so much a shadow as he was made of pure darkness. Even the light emanating from the weapon he held his hands did not illuminate him anyway. Yet, he was crisp and held the distinctive outline of a man in a military uniform. A moment later, he raised the light again and another girl fell, crying out in pain as blood flew from her torso. Then, the light swept across the room several times. All three remaining women shook and spasmed violently, blood bursting from their eyes, ears, mouths, noses, and the wounds permeating their bodies. Finally, the light came to a stop and the bodies slumped to the floor.

Vivian opened her eyes and tried to draw a breath. It was impossible; her entire mouth and throat felt blocked. But she felt warm, alert, and she could breathe in slightly through her nose. Around her, she heard a steady _hisssss _as the Cryotube depressurized and the lid lifted. Soon, lights within the tube went from a dull yellow to a bright, but not overwhelming, stark white.

Two Cryo technicians approached from either side of the tube. Both wore white, sealed suits, blue gloves, and wore facial masks.

"Captain," they both greeted. "Ready to get out?"

Unable to speak, Vivian got up. Both took her by the arm and led her to a bench running down the center aisle between the rows of Cryotubes. She sat down and shivered. After leaving the Cryotube during its thawing process and entering the _I'm Alone's _neutral air temperature, a paradox between not quite warm and not quite cold, she had goosebumps all over her skin. Other tubes were being thawed and numerous technicians were helping other officers out. Save for the Cryonics Bay personnel, everyone was naked. Nobody seemed to notice or care; throughout their training they saw countless other service men and women in such states as undress. It was all part of the routine and not even Vivian, the ranking officer cared if the others saw her that way.

Another medical technician approached, holding a medical PDA in one hand. It was a small, gray pad with a connected handle on the left. Aside from a few keys on the edge and bottom, the main part of the pad was a screen. On the opposite side was a scanner, which he promptly held over her. Data was transmitted to his wrist-mounted data pad.

"Alright, Captain, let's run through the process. Sit straight, please ma'am."

Vivian nodded and sat as tall as she could. "Great. Now, please inhale as deeply as you can."

Opening her mouth was difficult enough and Vivian took a stronger breath than her first insticial one in the tube. The feeling of a blockage in her throat was a sensation, not an actuality, caused by the bronchial surfactant coating the inside of her lungs. It was a peculiar situation that would have felt distressing to anyone without any kind of training. Air collected in her mouth but struggled to travel down the throat. The discord between taking in air but the lungs refusing to fill up in a normal, timely manner made her feel empty and deflated. Eventually, the air began to make headway.

The technician, his face hidden by his mask, looked between her, his data pad, and the medical PDA. "Doing great Captain. You should be feeling the urge to cough. Cough once please."

Vivian forced it out and she felt the surfactant flood into her mouth. She coughed a little more, less forceful this time, and the rest came up. "Awesome, Captain. Now, swallow."

She gulped and felt the slimy surfactant slip down her throat. It took a few tries but she didn't mind the sensation or the taste. After she finished, she inhaled and exhaled steadily, as if a doctor was pressing a stethoscope to her chest. Her airway was clear and breathing felt more comfortable. Involuntarily, she sighed as she finished her breathing routine. Vivian looked up at the technician who continued to gaze at his device. "Heart rate, good, blood pressure, fantastic, breathing normal, temperature, nominal. Any dizziness, head pain, joint soreness, ma'am?"

"Just joint soreness."

"Yep, that's pretty normal. Once you're up and moving around, you'll work out the kinks, Captain. Standard procedure."

"Time?"

"Oh-six-hundred hours, ma'am. Expected slipspace exit is in three hours."

"Right on schedule," Vivian said as she stood up. "Thank you, Petty Officer."

The technician saluted and she returned the gesture when she stood up. He went down the line to assist another officer exiting a Cryotube. Many were already awake and were lining the benches. Some were already walking out of the bay and towards an adjacent facility. Vivian opened the locker next to the Cryotube she came out of, collecting her identification tags, uniform, and grooming kit. She fell in line with the rest and entered the shower room. Unlike the personal showers of the Marine barracks or in the private cabins for the ship's officers, it was a communal shower room like in the armory's workout room. However, whereas the armory's workout room showers could house up to two hundred personnel at a single time, the Cryonics Bay's adjacent facility seemed to go on for a mile. Bearing the same silver titanium bulkheads as the rest of the ship, the walls were lined with showerheads and thin dividers between each space. Each stall was open and four feet across and possessed a small shell for grooming materials. Similar to the Cryonics Bay, there were two parallel benches running the length of the facility.

Vivian chose one, set her uniform down, draped her tags back around her neck, and proceeded into the stall. While she waited for the water to turn hot, she hung her towel on a hook and took out her bar of soap. Steam began to billow from the water and she washed quickly. It felt good to be under the hot water; although she was unable to feel the cold of being frozen for the better part of the two-week journey, it was a great relief. To describe cryo-sleep was impossible; there was just nothingness. In sleep, one dreamed, woke up, stirred, rolled over, and dozed. None of that was possible in a Cryotube. Her dream was a result of the waking up process, when the occupant entered deeper, but otherwise normal sleep.

After rinsing and drying off, she tied her blonde hair back into a bun and donned her uniform. As she finished buttoning her blouse, she saw Frost, clad in his fatigue trousers. He was just pulled on an olive drab t-shirt when he noticed her and offered a nod. Vivian could not help but stare at him for a few moments before offering one in return.

As the crew of the _I'm Alone _began flooding the ship's corridors and the Marines began pounding the armory, Vivian proceeded to the bridge. When she reached it, she found the entire staff, including Uwem and Solak, already present. Even Decatur appeared on his AI pedestal.

"Captain on deck!"

Everyone stood up and saluted.

"As you were." All the main officers were at their stations, monitoring their data and running simulations. She assumed her station and reviewed the backlog of the _I'm Alone's _data gathered during the slipspace jump. From the reactors to the Cryonics Bay, the information was green across the board. Vivian proceeded to check in with the skeleton crew, who were relieved prior to her arrival, and learned they were in good health. Satisfied, she conferred with her officers who reported everything was functioning well. Having run through her review procedure, she opened the ship's intercom. "Immediate presence on the bridge: ODST HQ, 89th MEU HQ, Alpha Company HQ and platoon leaders."

It did not take long for the requested personnel to arrive. Colonel Hayes, imposing and tall as ever, was in full battle regalia. With him came Major Holst and Captain De Vos, wearing their ODST BDU's save for their helmets. Major Royce arrived with his company headquarters staff, as well as the platoon leaders. Royce was accompanied by Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing and Lieutenant Conroy, leader of Second Platoon, was accompanied by Frost. As they entered, Vivian stood up and led them over to one of the tactical screens. Linking her data pad to it, she changed the screen's contents. The chief intelligence officer, Lieutenant Delany, joined her as well.

She surveyed the troops in front of her. Holst and De Vos were over to her left, wearing serious expressions. Hayes was in the center, hands folded behind his back and he wore an excited grin. His BDU was polished and in perfect order; although he wore his soft cover officer's hat, under his arm was his CH252 helmet with the colonel rank insignia printed in white on it. Clean-shaven and hair trimmed, he looked exactly how one expected a battle command to look. To the Colonel's right were the Raiders; like all ready Marines, they had their weapons already. Each was slung over their shoulders and held by the strap. Royce, in typical fashion, was wearing a black balaclava underneath his CH252. Swing's sleeves were rolled up, exposing his sinewy forearms. In his set of M52B body armor, he looked even more imposing than in fatigues. Conroy was a slim man and bore himself in a professional manner. Beside him, Frost stood with his arms folded across his chest and a patient expression.

"I trust you slept well," she said to them all, offering a small smile. She motioned to the tactical display, which shifted to a barren looking world. "This is Heaven's Sent, a colony glassed in 2527. Thanks to the intel Rundstrom provided before jump-off, we have confirmation of a Covenant facility on the surface of the planet. It appears to be manufacturing heavy vehicles and the presence of a resupply facility in orbit indicates this is a frequent stop for Covenant fleets en route to the front."

She switched the display again. A series of images taken from orbit showed a bird's eye view of the facilities. A series of smooth, flowing, purple structures surrounded by cylinders indicated warehouses and production facilities. As well, there was a massive gravity lift pad and a collection of summits. Each structure was characterized by a larger, central tower and a series of tiered aerial pads on either side. More images revealed buildings still under construction.

"Our objective is twofold; to disable the planetside facilities and to disable the resupply station."

Images were minimized and new ones replaced them. "Rundstrom has reported at least four _CRS_-class light cruisers, ten _SDV_-class Corvettes, and two _CAR_-class frigates defending the system. After the destruction of the defense fleet, we'll form three groups: the Navy will assault the supply station. Alpha Company will land at the south end by Pelican and assault northwards. Major Holst and his ODSTs will drop on the Covenant airfield and destroy their aircraft before they can get off the ground."

She pointed at Holst. "That's also where their concentration of anti-air defenses will be greatest."

An image of a Type-27 Mantis anti-air gun appeared on the screen. Standing on a tripod, the golden-brown armor of the gun gleamed in the shot. Its massive barrel was pointed skyward. Holst stepped forward and observed the image.

"We can handle that," he said confidently after a moment.

"I'm glad to hear it. Once that gun is knocked out, I can detach _Determined Guardian _and _Lion's Den_ for in-atmosphere support. Securing the airfield is a primary objective, Major; it will serve as the primary exfil point for ground forces. Once the Pelicans and the frigates are in orbit, a Shortsword strike will carpet bomb the facility for good measure."

She held her data pad with both hands and stepped in front of the screen. "Remember, this is about maximizing damage and speed. We don't have to necessarily destroy the targets in their entirety, but deliver a crippling blow. Getting bogged down in a firefight is _not _an option. With combined arms and superior firepower, we should be able to avoid this factor. Lieutenant Delaney will send you a more detailed file of the plan to your personal data pads. Begin briefing your men. Thank you."

Salutes were exchanged and the groups began filing out. Holst and De Vos left quickly while it took a few minutes for the Marine Raiders to leave in their entirety. Colonel Hayes remained where he stood. "Colonel, I know the 89th isn't slated for deployment on this operation but I would ask you to place them in standby."

"In case the ground battle becomes protracted," he said with a nod. "I understand. We'll be ready to jump at a moment's notice."

"I promise your men won't be sidelined in the coming operations."

He smiled slowly.

"I appreciate that, Captain. I'll take my leave."

Vivian nodded and the pair saluted. She warily watched him go. The information Rundstrom showed her in the ONI database was still fresh in her mind, even after several intense months. As the Colonel strutted off, she sensed a disguised but nonetheless smugness about him. He knew things she didn't and Vivian couldn't abide by that. Even Frost, his star Marine, was unaware of such documents. Recalling First Lieutenant Lombar, the jumpy staff officer in the 89th MEU's headquarters, and what he showed her, she felt she could not trust Hayes entirely. Still a point of contention, at least for her, was the drawing of weapons on one another during the Adley affair. Like a dream she was struggling to remember, it all came back to her. Within, the urge to discover what was hidden bubbled up.

Yet, her gaze fell and she turned back to her console. Perhaps it was just the dream getting to her. She made her peace with their loss and what Frost did. He was a Marine, and more than that, a killer. She could not judge him for what he did, both on Skopje and beyond: she violated a number of laws within the UNSC Constitution as well. Was she just looking for another mystery to fill the hole in her chest, the one demanding justice over an affair from her youth, or hoping to make the nightmares stop?

Looking out the bridge viewing glass and observing the golden-blue streams of slipspace light, she decided to put it to rest. Not for good; that was an impossibility and she knew it. But the _I'm Alone's _commanding officer couldn't be delving into the past and ruminating on all the wrongs and lies she perceived. Ahead lied the mission, the Covenant, and she knew in her heart of hearts, to engage with them was what she wanted most.

Taking her seat, she rested her elbows on the console's edge and folded her hands in front of her lips.

"Decatur?"

The AI turned to face her. He clicked his heels together.

"Yes, ma'am!?"

"Set a timer for slipspace exit and send it to all available displays across the _I'm Alone_."

"Straightaway, ma'am!"

A moment later, the countdown timer appeared on the upper right hand corner of her screen. Two hours and thirty-seven minutes, with a steadily declining second mark. She sat back and waited.

* * *

In the hangar, Alpha Company was gathered up. Major Royce was conferring with his headquarters staff and the platoons were organized into four columns of troops. Everyone was sitting and leaning back against their rucksacks. Directly ahead of them were the Pelicans, their landing gear extended and rear compartment hatches open. Flight crews were conducting last minute inspections on the aircraft. On the other side of the hangar, Shortswords and Longswords were being inspected as well. Deck crews gave hand signals to the pilots, who in turn made gestures of their own.

Frost was with his squad. Everyone was quiet and stone-faced. It felt like ages since they were in battle even though it was a few months. The air was tense as each Marine grappled with the swiftly approaching operation. Almost everyone was holding something and was turning it over in their hands. Knight clutched a traditional photograph of his wife, Jane, and his son, Nicky; both were smiling very wide at the camera. One of his gloved fingers touched the photo, following the outline of their faces. Maddox was holding one as well, but Frost couldn't see it from where he sat. He could only assume it was of his own sweetheart. Langley reached into her BDU blouse and took out her dog tags. Also on the chainsaw as a small cross and she held it tightly in her hand. Once she closed her eyes, her mouth moved slowly, her lips barely parting. When she finished, she tilted her head back and sighed. Moser was doing the same, but he was staring up at the ceiling. Bishop clutched his M90, holding it between his legs; one of his hands rested on the barrel and the other below the trigger guard. Although his trigger hand was still, the fingers on his other steadily drummed on the side.

Carris was clad in her armor from head to toe. Across her lap, she held not her assault rifle but an M739 Squad Automatic Weapon. The long, slender weapon was freshly polished and she was cleaning the barrel with a kit. When she finished, she took one of the large drum magazines fastened to her armor's webbing and loaded it. She checked the safety, ensuring it was on, and then put the weapon over her shoulder. With a metallic _thwap_, the magnets took hold of the weapon. Her helmet moved slightly and Frost could tell she was looking at him. He looked away.

There was nothing in his hands. He possessed no momentos of home and his equipment was squared away. His hands remained folded together on his stomach.

"Twenty minutes until slipspace exit, people!" Royce called.

Frost breathed in deeply. He felt uneasy, as if his feet were unsure on unlevel ground. Something was off and he couldn't quite place it. Perhaps it was Steele's absence, or how they hadn't shared anything but the harsh words he belted out in the barracks. Even if he was still angry, he still would have preferred that the scout sniper was with him. Not only was he an incredible asset to the squad and the platoon as a whole, Louis-Henry Steele possessed a wonderful presence on the battlefield. His humor didn't dissolve under fire and even when the situation grew dire, he just kept fighting. Steele was undisciplined, aloof, uncaring, and prone to behavior unbecoming of a Marine. He was the worst one out of the lot; Frost believed that thoroughly and would not recant such a statement. But he was a fighter and he loved his fellow warriors. Perhaps, that all he could ask of him.

When another call denoting the time rang out, Frost found himself wringing his hands together. Parting them, he smoothed out his BDU trousers just to occupy them.

"Nate?"

Frost looked around, and saw a pair of legs beside him. He looked up and saw it was Jasmine. She smiled at him. Immediately, he stood up; under his BDU, it was difficult. But he managed and saluted. Jasmine returned it.

"Jas," he said in a quiet tone, casting a quick glance towards the Marine officers at the front of the platoons. "Is everything okay?"

"I just wanted to tell you that the _stowaway _is stable and resting in the medical bay."

Jasmine spoke loud enough for the squad to hear. As soon as she finished, her smile faded and her hardset gaze rested on Carris. "Where he _will _remain, correct Petty Officer Carris?"

"Yes, Lieutenant Commander," came the neutral reply.

"Good," said Jasmine, nearly seething. She pushed her glasses back up her nose and turned back to Frost. After taking a quick glance around, she stepped closer to him. "Are you ready?"

"Read as we'll ever be."

"No, I mean _you_. Are you okay?" Jasmine lowered her head, looking up at him past her glasses. Frost lowered his head a little bit.

"Uneasy. Once we start throwing lead I'll be tip-top."

"I know." Jasmine reached up and touched his cheek with her slender fingers. "I know. You'll be great. You're the best Marine I've ever met. But you're more than that. You're the best man I've ever met."

Frost couldn't help but smile as his heart swelled. Her words wove into him, gave him courage, and reinvigorated his spirit. He felt electrified, as if new life was being breathed into him. At that moment, he cursed the presence of his superior officers; he wanted to kiss her so badly and hold her.

Then, there was a glimmer in her eyes. She smiled almost sadly. "So don't...just..." Jasmine sighed heavily and her smile grew again. "Just don't do anything stupid, how about I say that?"

"Since when I do anything stupid?" Frost asked, throwing in an exaggerated, defensive shrug. Jasmine tapped him on the shoulder.

"Do you want me to draw up the list?"

They parted, Jasmine walking backwards towards the aft entrance to the hangar. Both were still smiling and chuckling a little. Frost didn't want to look away and he knew neither did she. But she did. Sliding her hands into the pockets of her white lab coat, she trundled back to the staircase leading up to the platform exit. He couldn't take his eyes off her.

"Ten minutes! On your feet, Marines!" Major Royce shouted loudly. "You're not paid to lie around like bunch of fucking Airmen!"

There was a great rustle and bustle as men rose to their feet. Rucksacks were jostled, cartridge belts and pouches shifted, and armor plating clanked. Men grunted, groaned, and swore. Some began quick breathing exercises, adjusting their necks, and shaking their hands. Everyone was warming up, getting ready in their own way.

Royce jumped up onto a supply crate and looked at Alpha Company. "We're the second wave, people. The Albatrosses will lead the way and drop the Warthogs. We'll be right behind them. The Warthogs walk us into the compound; First Platoon, left flank, Second Platoon, center, Third Platoon, right flank. We are _not _stopping gentlemen. The only time you stop is to pick up a wounded man. Anybody who gets wounded is getting tossed in a Warthog."

He surveyed them from behind his goggles and balaclava. Royce was not the tallest man in the 89th MEU by any means. In fact, he was a shade shorter than Frost. As well, he was not a man of profound strength or breadth. By Marine Corps standards, he was quite thin. Nobody doubted his skill; he was a career man from the days of the Insurrection. A buck private worked his way all the way to Master Sergeant before receiving a Battlefield Appointment to Second Lieutenant. From there, he continued working up the chain. Modern Marines called the veterans like Hayes, Royce, and Swing, 'bush fighters,' due to the counter-insurgency nature of the Insurrection. They came up in the Recon section, going on long patrols with little support, fighting what could be described as a guerilla war rather than conventional battles. One could pick out such warriors; they were slim, alert, and there was a darkness about them. Royce knew this as his face was almost nearly covered and then he made himself scarce when garrisoned.

Royce folded his hands behind his back. "You're Marine Raiders, now. In your hearts, you want action. Today will be a glorious day for the Marine Corps. Now get on those Pelicans."

As the columns began to shuffle towards the aircraft, Frost took a last look to see if Jasmine was still there. He was surprised and relieved to see she had stopped at the top of the staircase. One hand was on the railing while the other resting on her side. From where he stood, he could not make out the expression on her face or her eyes. But he knew she was looking at him and when he set his eyes on her, he couldn't look away.

"Gunny, hey Gunny, where you think you're going?" came Lieutenant Conroy's voice. Frost wasn't listening. "Gunny!" Breaking into a trot and letting his MA5B hang by the strap, he hurried over to the staircase. Grabbing the rail and turning sharply, he pounded up the steps. At the top, Jasmine already turned to face him. She didn't say a word as he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her so tightly he took her off her feet for a moment. Her arms wrapped around his neck and her hands rested on the back of his head. As she dug her fingers into his hair, Jasmine knocked off his helmet. It clattered onto the platform before tumbling down the stairs.

When they finally parted, Frost kissed her like he never did before. Only pulling away slightly, he touched her cheek with his gloved hand.

"I don't care what anyone else thinks, not even my squad," he said. Jasmine wasn't crying but her eyes were watery and her voice was thick.

"What on _Earth _are you talking about?" she asked.

"I love you," he said. The first tears rolled down Jasmine's face.

"I love you too," she said as she buried her face into his neck and clutched his webbing. They let go of one another and gazed into each other's eyes.

"I'll be okay," he assured her. Frost then realized how thick his own voice was and struggled to hold back the tears in his eyes.

"I know," she said, sniffing and wiping her face. With that quick movement, she was once against Lieutenant Commander Ebrahimi, Naval officer and doctor. "I know."

Frost spun on his heel, bounced back down the steps, scooped up his helmet on the turn, and hurried back to his squad. Running back into the midst and putting his helmet on, he merely sighed as they continued to shuffle forward. A few moments later, he finally noticed their bemused stares.

"What the hell was that?" Bishop asked.

"Life's a little too short these days. I'm not leaving without saying what needed saying."

Almost everyone looked at him quizzically. But Knight smiled very wide, lighting up his oval face, and he reached over to tap Frost on his shoulder pauldron.

"Too right, mate."

Frost, grinning, cast one last look to Jasmine, then gazed into the dark compartment of the Pelican ahead of him. He felt readier than he ever had before.

* * *

"Exiting slipspace in ten, nine, eight..." Sosa counted down. "...seven...six...five..."

Vivian was leaning forward in her seat, her fingers pressing down so tightly on the console's dashboard her knuckles were white. Her own breathing was increased and her heart pounded inside her chest. Although her gaze was fixated on the bridge view finder, she could tell everyone else was bracing. Bassot's fiery haired head was trembling as he was so excited. Even Decatur, standing atop his pedestal, was poised to dash forward. In his hand he clutched his officer's saber and in his left a flintlock pistol.

Exchanging a glance with the hologram, she grinned. The AI tipped his hat forward in a cocksure way.

"Oh, how I long for a time when I could board the prize!"

"Maybe one day, Decatur," Vivian assured him.

"Three...two...one!"

The golden-blue lights flurried and trembled, then swirled together like a whirlpool. Suddenly, the _I'm Alone _was in the darkness of space. In the distance was a gray dot, and a strange mushroomed shaped object hovering beside it. Around it were little purple blots. Sosa's hands danced across her terminal. "Slipspace jump successful!"

"Koroma, establish a communication link with the other ships and have them report in!" Vivian ordered, standing up instinctively. "Bassot, beginning charging both MAC cannons. Decatur, reroute as much power as you can to charge the guns."

Within minutes, voices began filling the bridge communication network.

"_Batavia _reporting in!"

"_Best of the Best_, jump successful!"

"_Determined Guardian_, ready!"

"_Lion's Den_, let's take it to them!"

"All slipspace jumps successful," Koroma reported.

"Ma'am, the Covenant fleet is moving to engage. We have two formations of six ships in V-formation. Two _CRS_-class light cruisers and two _CAR_-class frigates are in diamond formation acting as a reserve."

"Get it up on the screen, Tsang."

A moment later, the port side tactical screen flashed to another screen. Real time imaging focused on the enemy ships. Each of the V-formations was steaming towards her ships. Each was led by a _CRS_-light cruiser, with two corvettes to its starboard and three to its port. The forward formation was above the other. Behind them, the diamond formation proceeded at a slower speed.

Vivian only needed a moment to sit and began typing commands onto her console. "Lieutenant Tsang, dispatch these coordinates to the rest of the battlegroup. Double column, with _I'm Alone _at the head of the port column with _Batavia_ and _Best of the Best _heading the starboard column. _Determined Guardian _and _Lion's Den_ will follow behind in that order."

Her fingers tapped madly across her keyboard but her eyes were fastened to the orbital battlefield projector on her left hand screen. "Dispatching coordinates for followup formation: each of the lead ships will exhaust their MAC cannons and then peel off to their respective direction, _I'm Alone _to port, _Best of the Best _to starboard, and move to their NAV point. Next ship will move forward, fire, and repeat the maneuver to their own NAV point."

Upon completion, the battlegroup would find itself in a line formation. Vivian ordered that ships would fire Archer missile pods, the number left to their discretion of each commanding officer, while waiting for their MAC guns to recharge. She selected the coordinates with the assurance there would be plenty of room for ships to maneuver without fear of collison. She two sets of targeting vectors for each of the ships, passed them along to Tsang, who in turn dispatched them to the rest of the battlegroup. On the starboard tactical screen, she could see an outline of each ship under her command, their statistics beside them, and an empty notification circle. After Tsang sent the coordinates, each one flashed green, indicating the plan was understood.

Vivian finished sending the coordinates. "Bassot, update."

"Already to a sixty percent charge, ma'am!"

"Prep Archer missile pods, one through three."

"Aye, ma'am!"

She looked back at the bridge viewing glass, sweat glistening on her forehead. The Covenant formations were growing larger by the second. Suddenly, there was a series of flashes among the enemy ships. Bright white light appeared followed by an orange shockwave. When the light and dust dissipated, the _CRS_-light cruiser in the leading formation was on fire and secondary explosions were rocking its hull. Moments later, there was a massive detonation and the ship snapped in two. Purple, red, and white plasma fires burst out from the exposed hull. The first corvette in the starboard wing was out of control and moving out of formation. Much of its bow was on fire and there were smaller detonations billowing aftwards. On the port side, the leading corvette was already breaking apart. The withdrawn formation suffered less damage; the light cruiser's shields were flickering on and off, one corvette was destroyed, and one was heavily damaged.

Tsang looked over his shoulder, calm as could be.

"Ma'am, those were M441 Hornet Mines."

Before Vivian could say a word, Koroma turned.

"Ma'am, Captain Rundstrom is requesting to be patched into the ship net. He's also requesting a secure link direct from his station."

"Proceed."

A moment later, the heavy accented voice of the ONI Prowler Captain chimed intot he bridge.

"Captain Waters, it's been some time," he said gleefully. "I left the Covenant a little present. Did you like the lightshow?"

Vivian grinned a little and shook her head.

"Captain Rundstrom, if your transmission isn't mission critical you best close this comm link immediately," she said, doing her best to hide her enthusiasm.

"Straightaway, ma'am."

"Link closed, ma'am."

"Keep _River Styx _on the net. Tsang, I'm sending you new vectors, send them along, if you please."

"Aye, ma'am!"

"Ma'am, we're approaching extreme firing range," Bassot reported, "we've got eighty percent charge for the MAC guns."

Vivian looked at the battlefleet projection screen again. All ships, save for the _Batavia_, were ready to fire. She looked back at her console and typed in a code that linked her station to Bassot's. By this manner, one of the screens on her console mirrored the weapons terminal. "We're in range, ninety-five percent!"

"All ships, hold for my command," Vivian said through the fleet network link. _Batavia's _displayed indicated it was ready to fire.

"Charged!" Bassot shouted.

"All ships, fire!"

The _I'm Alone _shuddered marvelously and a golden streak emanated from the bow. The first round knocked out the remaining Covenant corvette's shield on the starboard wing of the leading V-formation. _Best of the Best's _first MAC round did the same to light cruiser leading the withdrawn formation. Both ships' shields were eliminated.

The _I'm Alone's _second MAC round struck its first target. Corvettes lacked shields and the projectile hit the bow directly. Unlike a bullet fired from an infantryman's individual weapon system, which had an unpredictable trajectory upon entering a body, the MAC round was so heavy it could pierced a lightly armored target and keep moving. This round in particular entered the corvette's bow and exited its stern, plummeting right through its engines. The engine exploded and caused a chain reaction. In tandem, the remaining four engines exploded, destroying the stern section of the ship. It began drifting away, still afire. _Best of the Best's _second round struck the light cruiser, blowing off its bow and causing secondary explosions along its hull.

With their lead ship and starboard wing knocked out, the two remaining corvettes moved first into a column, and then a line formation. The two ships, on their own, seemed conspicuously doomed among the wreckage of the previous ships. The corvette that was out of control seemed to be righting itself, but there were fires from numerous locations across its smooth purple hull. Suddenly, there appeared to be molten cracks appearing on the hull, which gave way to more fires. A moment later and the ship disappeared in a massive explosion. Much of the debris field was set askew by the detonation.

Vivian ordered Bassot to fire the second MAC gun. The first round struck the weak shield of the port corvette first, eliminating it, then knocked out the shield of the one to starboard. _Best of the Best's _next shot crippled the light cruiser.

"Sosa, execute one-hundred forty degree turn to port! Half-speed, maintain control!"

"Aye, Captain! One-hundred forty degree turn, port, half-speed: execute!"

"Bassot, reroute as much power as you can into those guns!"

"Aye, ma'am!"

The _I'm Alone _began turning and soon Vivian could no longer see the battlefield through the bridge glass.

"Decatur, give me starboard cameras!"

Both of the corvettes, now without their shields, executed a turn to their starboard, thus bringing them abreast of the _I'm Alone. _Then, they increased their speed, running ahead but still parallel to the _I'm Alone. _Suddenly, purple-white plasma flared amidships on both ships. Golden-purple streaks began to barrel not towards the _I'm Alone_, but where she was heading.

"Ma'am, enemy plasma bolts incoming!"

"Sosa?" Vivian stood up, looking at the navigation officer.

"Captain, turn complete."

"Full speed ahead!"  
The _I'm Alone _shuddered and thrust forward. Vivian looked down and monitored the starboard cameras. The golden-purple lights came closer and closer, but soon began to fall out of view. She held her breath and waited. Everyone was silent.

"Enemy projectiles missed," Decator reported. Vivian ordered the port side cameras to be activated. She watched as bolts dwindled into the black void before turning back to the starboard cameras. Both enemy ships' guns were beginning to flare again. Then, Captain Kelly's voice flooded the bridge.

"_Batavia_, firing!"

Vivian watched a golden streak strike the leading corvette. It hit amidships, almost directly where the plasma cannon block was located. Immediately, the ship's speed slowed. _Batavia _fired again and the MAC struck its stern. A fiery explosion billowed out and secondaries rippled towards the bow. The ship began cracking apart. But the second ship managed to fire and a trio of golden-purple plasma bolts shot towards the _Batavia_. Vivian switched to aft cameras and watched as two of the bolts hit the carrier's bow. Orange-red explosions permeated the silver titanium battleplate.

"_Batavia_, _I'm Alone_, report!" Koroma cried.

"This is _Batavia_," Kelly replied, his voice thick but firm, "the battleplate held. We're firing again!"

Its third MAC round hit the corvette amidships as well, but caused a large explosion. Minutes later, the ship began breaking up. "Ship destroyed," Kelly reported, "_I'm Alone_, we're falling in behind you."

"_Determined Guardian _reporting, one ship destroyed!" came Commander Alastair's confident tone. "We're running behind _Best of the Best_."

No more did three minutes pass before Commander Kolchak's heavily accented voice came through the link.

"That's one for _Lion's Den_!" he cried.

The line formation spread and soon all five ships were facing forward again. _I'm Alone _was on the extreme port side while _Best of the Best _was on the extreme starboard. Vivian ordered new firing vectors and sent them to the fleet. By this time, the _I'm Alone's _and _Best of the Best's _primary weapons had recharged. The remaining four corvettes of the now single V-formation were attempting to form a line of their own.

"Tsang, give me _River Styx's _location."

"Ma'am, she's falling in on to _Best of the Best's _starboard."

"Koroma, dispatch: have _River Styx _prep an M947."

"Aye."

Vivian gave one last looked to the tactical display, saw the ships were ready, and turned back towards the bow.

"Fire Archer missile pods! Hit their shields!" Vivian ordered. Across the entire line, oversized pods exploded and a horde of missiles streamed towards the enemy fleet. From her perspective, they appeared like little brown-gray clouds getting smaller and smaller. A series of purple streaks began to appear sporadically around the corvettes. Around them were hundreds upon hundreds of little explosions as the Covenant point-defense systems destroyed the missiles. But a large number of Archer missiles survived the journey and soon the corvettes' shields rippled with fiery detonations. Their shields flickered but did not die.

It was exactly what Vivian wanted. She had bought time.

"Ma'am, one hundred percent!" Bassot cried. She checked the tactical display and saw all the ships were ready. Ahead, the Covenant ships' armaments were beginning to flare.

"All ships, fire!"

"Shot!"

Five separate golden streaks streamed towards the corvettes. Massive, explosive clouds washed over the shields. All four ships' shields flicked, sparked, and died.

"Fire at will!"

The attack was devastating. Each MAC round pummeled the four corvettes, breaking apart their hulls, sending secondaries rippling forward and aft, exploding their engines, and fracturing the ships. Mere moments ago, the Covenant formation consisted of four ships: now, it was a field of dust and blackened, scorched twisted metal.

"Ma'am, remaining Covenant formation approaching," Tsang reported.

Vivian looked past the debris field and saw the diamond formation splitting into a line. She heard Decatur scoff and turned to look at him. The AI flashed a cocky grin at her.

"You must admire their courage."

"Don't mistake idiocy for courage; a smart enemy would know he's beat by this point," Vivian replied confidently. "_River Styx_, do you copy?"

"Roger, _I'm Alone_."

"Fire when ready."

"Firing!"

A few minutes later, there was a white explosion among the four remaining ships. For a moment, they seemed to disappear. When they returned, their shields were dead and there were fires across the hulls. All but one appeared to be drifting aimlessly, no doubt their crews shocked by the Shive nuclear warhead and the ships' systems damaged.

Vivian typed another set of attack vectors and passed them along.

"Bassot, arm Archer missile pods four and five and fire immediately."

"Aye, firing!"

A second wave of Archer missiles flooded from the UNSC ships, soared towards the Covenant ships, and this time there was little interference from point defense weapons. The missiles ripped and tore large sections of the ships' hull away. One of the cruisers steadily burst into flames. The frigate which was able to hold course before was now out of control and appeared to be sinking below their level.

"_Best of the Best_, _Batavia_, finished off those ships. _Determined Guardian, Lion's Den_, prepared for in-atmosphere action. Sosa, take us over Heaven's Sent," Vivian said, sitting back in her chair and folding her hands on her dashboard. She pressed the ship's intercom. "Now hear this: Alpha Company, deploy!"

* * *

**Words: **6,893

**Pages (Google Docs): **17

**Original Font: **PT Serif

**Original Fone Size: **11

**Original Line Spacing: **1.5

**Author's Note: **Well, not quite on time seeing as it's after midnight and technically Monday. But hey, it's done, and I'm still basically on schedule. That's two weeks, that's a promising start. I hope you enjoyed the chapter; writing space battles presents two interesting factors and one annoying one. One, I have to go to extra lengths to describe the fleet maneuvers and actions of the ships so as to deliver not only an action-packed scene, but also one that is fluid and makes sense.

Two, it makes me think of the space battles depicted in the games and lore; to me, most of the UNSC tactics seemed really...dumb. Like, ships were just sitting there taking fire. Naval warfare is a maneuver game, and that's what I've always tried to show with Vivian's strategy. Her ships _move _efficiently and quickly, and she knows when it's time to deliver a straight up, knockout blow. It's not so much superior tactics as _logical _tactics. It actually bothers me a bit, and makes me wonder if the writers for the games/books just wanted to emphasize how devastating the Covenant technology was. It already is, but making the UNSC Navy 'catch a case of the stupid,' as my dear friend Fail4Fun likes to put it in these circumstances, isn't a good way to do it.

Three, there's only so many ways I can describe a ship blowing up. Believe me, I've made a study of _how ships sink. _I earned my bachelor's degree basically through that study. My concentration was maritime history and maritime disasters. There are many different ways a ship on the ocean sinks, but there's only so many ways to describe a _spaceship's _destruction. They catch on fire, have little explosions, and blow up. They either blow up or break up, like most relationships HEY-O! So I apologize if that department was lacking.

Anyways, comment responses and I'm out of here, because I have to be up doing manual labor in six and a half hours.

**Comment Responses:**

**TheCarlosInferno: **I can't give you a guarantee there'll be some kind of dialogue exchange like that, but you'll definitely see some more interaction between the two, not just regarding events but their ever-evolving friendship/relationship. Wouldn't that be something, to see Carris in a stereotypical nurse's outfit. Steele would be like, "Wow, love, you're doing things to me I can't quite explain." Carris would probably just end up seething silently before walking away.

**Ctrl-Dalt-Delete: **That's one heck of a story, I'm surprised that fellow didn't suffer even more severe consequences other than being threatened with a discharge. And hey, thank you, I appreciate that a lot man!

**Qrs-jg: **Yes, that's something I've been meaning to correct. As the story's matured and looking back in the editing process of the original _I'm Alone_, I felt I strayed too far from a...let's safely say realistic aspect of the story. Granted, it's fanfiction, and it's _Halo_, realism isn't really supposed to be a core trait of those games or even this story. Heck, this story's founding conflict is a result of magical realism. Still, I felt I went too far from how the military is depicted, so I went to greater lengths to enhance my knowledge of the U.S. military, seeing as how the UNSC is primarily based on that military, from its ranks to decorations. I could _now _probably arrange a ribbon rack by memory at this point, that's how closely I've studied, but I digress. My goal is to utilize the military-ethos and depictions that have always characterized a large portion of _Halo's _themes, plots, characters, and setting, and do them a bit more justice here. Granted, it will never take the foreground. My other, new _Halo _fanfiction, _To Be Brave_, will have a stricter usage of that, to the point that the starring unit, a UNSC Ranger company (because apparently the UNSC Army has Rangers, who knew it, not me until about a month ago!) will basically be its own character.

And hey, you hit the nail on the head, there was a space battle! It's been a while since I got to write one so from the moment I finished Chapter 18, I knew the first real battle of _Exalt _was going to a naval engagement. Hope you enjoyed it!


	20. Chapter 20: The First Raid, Pt 2

Chapter 20: The First Raid, Pt. 2

* * *

As the Pelican Yankee-Triple Seven rose from the hangar deck, there was a brief sensation of weightlessness. In the dull red light of the passenger compartment, Frost instinctively gripped the safety harness. Almost everybody did, even Carris, who loomed ominously in her armor. With the rear hatch already sealed, there was absolutely no noise save for the squad's labored but otherwise steady breathing, the muffled conversation between Warrant Officers Jasper and Pajari, and the occasional utterance from the crew chief Isha, who sat beside Frost on the starboard side of the Pelican.

Craning his neck, the Gunnery Sergeant could just see past the heads of his Marines and into the cockpit. On the right side was Pajar's helmeted head; her hands flowed over the console and controls. Readouts ran across the screen and dials of varying colors flashed. Through the cockpit windscreen, he could see a formation of Albatrosses already leaving the hangar. Behind them was a formation of Pelicans, waiting their turn. Below, deck crew members in orange and yellow uniforms waved lights and made hand signals. Every so often, Pajar would return one.

Then, the engines of the forward Pelicans flared and they moved forward. Exiting the hangar, they soon disappeared, leaving only the dwindling lights of their engines. Pajari suddenly saluted, the Pelican shuddered, and they thrust forward. A moment later and they were in vacuum. The entire dropship trembled as the speed increased and the pilots adjusted to flying in orbit. Slowly, banked towards Heaven's Sent, nothing more than a massive gray slate through the screen. Once the planet seemed to fill the entire cockpit's windscreen, obscuring even the slightest segments of black space around it, the speed increased again.

As the Pelican plummeted towards Heaven's Sent, it finally entered its atmosphere with a shudder. The entire dropships began to shudder heavily. Frost and his squad were jostled back and forth in their seats. It felt as though his very teeth were wobbling in his gums. One wrong move and they would fall out or shatter. Looking back towards the cockpit, he saw Pajar hold up one finger.

"One minute!" Isha cried, holding up his finger.

"One minute!" everyone cried out, holding up their index fingers as well. The terrain of Heaven's Sent became defined through the glass. Below were ash colored ridges and fields of shattered stone. In many places, there were gigantic creators big enough to hold a town or even a small, thriving city. An entire regiment could sit at the bottom with all its equipment and would still have enough room for every single Marine to establish a crash pad and sleep. Remembering the briefing in the hangar, Frost recalled Heaven's Sent was a mountainous planet but a combination of UNSC nuclear detonations and Covenant heavy weapons destroyed them.

"Thirty seconds!" Pajar yelled out, holding her index finger and thumb apart by nearly an inch.

"Thirty seconds!" everyone hollered, mimicking the gesture. Ther SQUADCOM crackled to life.

"We will not be touching down," Jasper said. "We'll drop down to the nap-of-the-earth and reduce speed. We'll operate by lights. Good luck, devil dogs."

His tone was unnaturally serious for a change. When one encountered the Warrant Officer outside his aircraft, he was always grinning, quick to joke, and unafraid to be snide. Even when he was at the controls, it was not uncommon to hear him say something sarcastic or humorous. To hear his voice as cold and firm as titanium was especially unnerving. Frost closed his eyes and drew a long breath.

When he opened them, his gray eyes were alight, his brow was furrowed with determination, and his expression hardened.

"Alright, First Squad, listen up! We're following the Warthogs in and then we're moving lightning fast through this base. Shoot anything that isn't in BDU's and wreck anything that looks like it's important. Fuel tanks, vehicle parts, assembly lines; I don't care if it's an Elite's electric toothbrush, break that shit over your knee and press on. You heard the Major: we're only stopping to pick up a wounded Marine. Nobody gets left behind. Let's raise some hell, Marines!"

"Kill!" they all shouted in unison. Frost looked towards the cockpit. They were now flying very low to the ground. Ahead, the first V-formation of Pelicans shifted left. Their formation now moved forward and was directly behind the long line of Albatrosses.

Suddenly, the red light grew much brighter. Isha raised his harness, stood up in the center of the aisle, and raised his hands.

"Stand up!"  
At once, the Marines raised their harnesses, grabbed their weapons, and stood in two parallel lines facing the stern of the Pelican. Isha tapped his shoulders and everyone began checking over their BDU's. Frost could feel Moser's hands tapping his armor plates, webbing, vest, and rucksack. When he finished, he thumped his fist on his shoulder and gave a thumbs up. Frost returned the gesture over his shoulder. When he looked back to make sure his squad was in order, he was able to look through the cockpit windscreen one last time. Ahead by several hundred meters were the Albatrosses, flying low over the ground. Once they reduced speed, the rear ramps lowered and Warthogs began to reverse down and land on the ground. Green and blue plasma bolts began flying by the aircraft and followed them as they began to ascend.

"Cabin depressurizing," came Jasper's voice, this time over the Pelican's intercom link.

Isha turned around, hit the upper button on the control panel, and the rear hatch opened. Gray sunlight filled the passenger compartment and Frost had to shield his eyes despite the orange-tinted goggles he was wearing. When he lowered his hand, his eyes adjusted. Yankee-Triple Seven was only a few feet above the ground and was moving so slowly Frost could make out the individual rocks littering the scorched ground. The red light turned green. Isha stood off to the side, held a handle on the bulkhead with one hand, and then pointed with his hand towards the hatch.

"Go, go, go!" He shouted.

"Follow me!" Frost shouted with a wave of his arm. Charging forward, he leaped out of the Pelican and landed in a crouch. Looking over his shoulder in the same instant, he saw the rest of the squad piling out of the Pelican. Once the last one, Carris, was out, the Pelican picked up speed and ascended. All around, Marines began forming up and began racing after the Warthogs. The vehicles ahead were already assuming wedge formations, with one truck in front and one spaced diagonally slight behind it on either side. M41 Vulcan chainguns, M39 rocket launchers, and M68 Gauss cannons rippled along the Warthogs. Ahead, the sleek purple-pink color of the Covenant the base was already budding with explosions. Hundreds of blue and green plasma bolts streaked and arced past the Warthogs and over their gunners' heads.

Frost jumped to his feet and began running towards the closest Warthog formation. Turning as he did, he activated the SQUADCOM. "Wedge formation, I'm on point, let's go!"

Over the roar of heavy weapons, a great cry rang out from the Marines as they barreled forwards. The Warthogs, moving at half-speed, provided covering fire for the men as they advanced. NCO's and officers filled the SQUADCOM with orders, waved, and pointed. Everybody was screaming. It was chaos but it soon became order as the Marines fell in behind the Warthogs, matching their speed at a jog, and soon began firing at the enemy. Ahead, Covenant infantry began to filter out of various structures and began to take cover behind their own defense barriers. Elites threw oblong items onto the ground which sparked and deployed tall energy shields. Others directed squads of Grunts who formed firing lines and filled the air with plasma. Jackals began to filter into the ranks, carrying Beam and Needler rifles. Pink streaks flew through the air, embedding into the armor plating of Warthogs. Marines struck in the leg or arm cried out and fell. These men were swiftly picked up by fellow infantrymen or Corpsmen, were treated, and then were loaded into the back of a Warthog. Those who were hit in the head crumpled over without a sound, were stripped of ammunition and weapons, then loaded into the vehicles as well. Some who were killed in the rear were left behind, too far to be carried.

Frost walked with his shoulder pressed against the rear of one of the leading Warthogs. Every few meters, he would briefly duck out, fire a burst from his MA5B towards the enemy, and then return to cover. As the mechanized Marines approached the enemy perimeter, the Warthogs reduced their speed again and the Marines began walking behind them. Every single man was hunched low, occasionally popping out from behind the vehicles to fire at the enemy.

Machine gun fire and rockets ripped apart Covenant barricades. Single Elites were blown apart by blasts from Gauss cannons. Vulcan rounds tore Grunts apart, shattering their measly armor plating to pieces and ripped their flesh to bloody chunks. Once they lost their squad leaders, many of the Grunts threw away their weapons and began running away. Jackals held their ground, but riflemen armed with BR55's began picking them off as the distance closed between the opposing forces.

Already, the platoons on the flanks were pressing ahead of their Warthogs. Like a green-colored ocean wave, they charged the enemy positions and washed over the barricades. Some were cut down by the energy blades of Elites, but these heavy opponents were dispatched with blasts from M90's or had their shields chewed up by M7 rounds. When the shielding unit broke, they were torn apart by MA5B or MA5C rounds. Grunts were punted by black boot heels or pummeled by rifle butts. Marines threw themselves upon Jackals, unafraid of their disgusting, bird-like maws. Combat knives sliced throats, gouged out eyeballs, and tore open guts.

"First Squad, let's go!" Frost hollered. They ran past the Warthog, keeping clear of its tight field of fire. Frost leaped over the low, smooth barrier and immediately kicked a Jackal back. It squawked loudly as it landed hard on its back. Before it could get up, Frost planted his boot on its gut and fired a quarter of a magazine into its chest. By the time he released the trigger, its chest was caved in and oozing purple blood.

An Elite roared, dropped its plasma rifle, and charged at him. In the same instant, it activated its energy wrist blade. Just as Frost swung his MA5B towards it, Bishop fired a shell which stunted its movement. Then, he jammed the barrel against its middle and fired, killing its shield and tearing open its gut. But the Elite was not dead yet; it grabbed him by the neck with one of its hands and attempted to bring down the wrist blade with another. But Frost drew his M6C, aimed, and fired one shot. The bullet struck the Elite in the head and it immediately collapsed. Bishop wrested himself free, fired a slug into the corpse, and pressed on.

Major Royce appeared and began issuing orders on the comms.

"Engineers, demolish these barricades so the Warthogs can get through. One-Six, start clearing those sharpshooters fifty meters to your front. Three-Six, get your Marines moving up the right fucking flank, don't let the Covvies deploy any of those Type-42's. That's the way, hit'em, hit'em, hit'em! Two-Six, get your men in order and pierce the center of the next line before it forms, go, go, go!"

Lieutenant Conroy was in front of Frost, holding the handset from his RTO's radio to his ear.

"Two-Six rogers!" he turned around and waved. "Second Platoon, line formation! First and Second Squads on my right, Third and Weapons get on my left. Let's go!"

"You heard him, First Squad, move it out!" Frost hollered. The Marines of Second Platoon fell into formation and pressed forward. Through sizzling plasma and white-blue explosions fell around the Marines. A squadron of nimble Ghosts began speeding towards them; streams of blue plasma bolts flew from their cannons.

Conroy ordered the men to take cover and ordered his grenadiers to come forward. Marines shoulders their MA5's and took hold of their XM510 grenade launchers, aimed, and began firing. Shells fell around the enemy Ghosts, biffing, buffeting, and bracketing them. Once they found the range, they began scoring hits. One Ghost lost its rear section causing the anti-gravity propulsion to disengage and the vehicle to go skidding across the ground. Another was hit right on the nose, blowing open the armor plating. Flames erupted through the cracks, blue sparks began flying from them, there was an audible buildup of energy, and it exploded. Before the Ghosts were within fifty meters, all were destroyed.

"Move it up, Marines!"

Frost went ahead and heard detonations behind. The barriers disappeared in dust; when it settled, the path was clear save for some charred rubble. Warthogs began driving over the wreckage.

"Lieutenant, Warthogs are moving up," Frost said over the SQUADCOM.

"Second Platoon, spread it out, make way for the Hogs!" Conroy said over the platoon net.

In a few seconds, the Warthogs were leading the Marines once again. This time, they moved at a manageable speed and the Marines moved in between them. While the infantrymen continued to clear out enemy positions with M9 fragmentation grenades, underslung M301 launchers, or concentrated assaults, the Warthogs began blasting away at enemy structures. Warehouses cranes were destroyed by missiles and rockets; massive cylinders stored with raw materials were torn open by explosives. Power cells blew up in blue, red, and yellow fire. Fires began to spread throughout the building. Secondary explosions began erupting.

"Here come the ODSTs!" someone called.

Fiery shapes began to descend over the far end of the base. One by one, they began to burst through the ashen cloud layer and plummet towards the planet. First, there were only ten or twenty. Then there were fifty, a hundred, then several hundred. It was like rainfall that was afire. Streams of blue plasma flew skywards and flowed around the drop pods. Some were hit and exploded.

"Keep it moving, keep it moving!"

Covenant defenses began to melt. Elites were picked off by sharpshooters and heavy weapons. Grunts were running all over the place, bumping into one another and scrambling to get back inside.

"First Squad, get up onto those ramparts and destroy those turbines!" Conroy shouted. Frost looked towards the left flank and saw the upper walkway. Five turbines were vibrating and generating energy. Around them were various humming power cells that were taller than a Warthog; many were vibrantly blue with plasma.

"Frost, over here!" Maddox called. He made his way over to the combat engineer who busted open a crate packed to the brim with blue plasma grenades. No more discussion was had; Bishop and Knight joined them, each took hold of a side, and began carrying it over to the nearest power cell. They set it down as close as possible; the rough impact knocked nearly a dozen grenades out. Everybody fell back and then Maddox primed a grenade, hucked it at the crate, and it fell right inside.

"Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole!" the Marines cried. Everyone ducked down, tugged their helmets low over the brows, and turned their backs to the cranes. The explosion was massive; a bright blue plasma mushroom cloud flew skywards. At the same moment, the plasma cells began detonating, showering the next unit with fiery plasma and heat. Each one burst right after the other. The entire facility was rocked, the ramparts collapsed, and the turbines exploded. All the combined detonations rocked the entire facility, melted some of the exterior armor plating, and caused a fire that began to spread within.

Frost ordered his squad to return to the main unit. Already, they were pressing deeper into the facility. Marines seized more and more Covenant positions, began lobbing grenades into every door, hatch, and compartment they could find. Engineers rigged explosive charges under ramparts or at vulnerable, exposed assembly lines producing Covenant vehicle parts. Each time a detonator was pressed, the assembly lines fell into pieces and the secondary explosions raced inwards. One of the tall production facilities rumbled and shook after its assembly line was destroyed. In a few minutes, the building seemed to moan and quiver as more explosions continued to climb the spire. Then, the spire began to collapse and began to fall in on itself. Soon, the pieces of the spire fell in great piles around the base, fire jetted out, and the foundation crumbled.

"Wraith, Wraith, Wraith!"

Frost looked forward. A single Wrath began advancing towards the Marines. Its mortar flared and a blow of white-blue plasma began plummeting towards them. Marines scattered in all directions but the leading Warthog did not move fast enough. The plasma struck it directly and the Warthog was thrown off the ground by the concussion. All four tires blew off the axles and the engine exploded. Both the driver and the gunner were thrown from the Warthog, their bodies half-vaporized by the plasma. Even the M41 Vulcan was torn off, the barrels melting and curling, and the turret shield wasting away.

When the burning hulk landed on the ground with a terrific crash, it came to rest flast. Fire from the engine began to envelope the entire vehicle. Then, out of the bed, came half a dozen wounded Marines. All were covered with plasma burns; their hair and skin was aflame from the engine fire. Some of their armor plates melted and fused to their flesh by the heat of the plasma. Each one tumbled to the rocky ground screaming at the top of their lungs. A number lost arms or legs; all that remained were blackened, cauterized stumps.

Marines who avoided the blast rushed over and began applying biofoam. Some took their ruck blankets and put out the fires. Still, the wounded men screamed and writhed. Frost watched, horrified, the flames glinting in the pupils of his gray eyes. What lasted for less than a minute seemed like hours to him.

Shaken back to the fight, he passed the wounded Marines by and fell in step with other troops and their supporting Warthogs. Frost directed his squad, ushering them forward as they continued to engage Covenant targets. Many were starting to retreat, doubling back towards their anti-aircraft installations. ODST drop pods continued to fall from the sky and many began to strike the planet, following out of Frost's view.

"Alpha Six, this is Wardog Six, we're advancing on the Covenant AA battery," came Major Holst's voice over the SQUADCOM.

* * *

Captain De Vos raised her M7S and squeezed the trigger. An Elite Major's shields shimmered white as the rounds hit it. Two more ODSTs came up on her right and added their firepower to the fight. In seconds, the shield was destroyed. With a roar, the Elite staggered back as all three Helljumpers drained their magazines into its flesh.

"Move it up!" De Vos cried, loading a fresh magazine into her M7S. She led a squad of ODSTs towards the base of the Type-27 Mantis turret. The giant gun was scanning the air, searching for targets. All the Albatrosses and Pelicans were well above the cloud barrier, using it to disrupt the gun's scanners.

Other squads of the mottled gray armored troopers advanced on the enemy positions. Droves of Covenant dead littered the ground in front of them. Surrounding defensive positions were in the shape of purple half-circles festooned with purple armor plates; each one came no higher than an average man's waist. Jackals armed with wrist-mounted shields formed phalanxes in the gaps, linking the barriers. Others, armed with Needler rifles or plasma pistols, line the barriers. Kicked and prodded by furious Elites, Grunts joined the firing line as well. Some were armed with Needlers and streams of pink crystals began to fly towards the ODSTs.

"Spread it out!" Major Holst called. "Form a line on me! Move it up, Helljumpers! Keep up the fire!"

The air was alive with the sounds of suppressed weapons firing. Some of the ODSTs carried MA5C's with underslung M301 launchers. These grenadiers would crouch, load a shell, and fire at the enemy. Puffs of ash would appear on the ground in front or behind the walls, but some found their marks and detonated in a brief flash of debris. Armor plates were ripped off, exposing the wiring and framework underneath. Heavy weapons teams loaded M41 rocket launchers, cleared the backblast, and fired. One rocket struck the plasma shields of a concentrated group of Jackals. Squawking and screaming, the shields gave way under the explosion and the bodies flew in all directions. Purple blood splattered the ground, broken up by severed arms, legs, and heads.

"Six, this is Five, I'm going to move my section up and take the southern barrier. Request covering firing, over!"  
"Roger Five," Major Holst responded over the SQUADCOM. "Go on my mark...mark!"

The right flank exploded with a furious array of fire. Several heavy weapons teams quickly set up their M247 general purpose machine guns and began raking the Covenant troops with heavy automatic fire. Grunts and Jackals ducked down behind their cover, unable to return fire.

"On me!" De Vos yelled. The ODSTs hollered as they rushed the enemy position. But just as they were about to take it, Holst's teams were forced to cease fire. Reacting quickly, the Grunts, Jackals, and Elites got back on their feet and unleashed a volley of concentrated plasma. "Down!" De Vos yelled, diving in front of the barrier. When she rolled onto her back, she saw dozens of her troopers do the same. Nearly ten didn't react fast enough and they were riddled with plasma. Some were wounded and dropped down, clutching their wounds; others with greater presence of mind opened their first aid kits and began applying biofoam. One ODSTs caught a dozen pink crystal needles directly in his chest and detonated. His torso was blown into a bloody mass, his bones splintering and organs exploding. Yet, his limbs went unaffected; his arms, legs, and head came to rest on the fleshly pile of red blood on the ground. Even his weapon clattered to the ground unharmed.

De Vos rose to a crouch, shoved the barrel of her M7S over the edge of the barrier, and squeezed the trigger until the magazine was empty. On the other side, she heard Grunts screaming in terror and pain. When she reloaded, she repeated it but a heavy hand grabbed the weapon and tore it from her grasp. Immediately, she drew her M6C and emptied a magazine, being sure not to stick it out too far. Stubby arms jutted plasma pistols over the top and did their best to shoot at the ODSTs. Those who were still in cover at the original position were able to suppress them however.

When she emptied the magazine, she took an M9 grenade from her belt, pulled the pin, and lobbed it over. Other ODSTs who slithered up on either side of her did the same; seven grenades detonated on the opposite side. The combination of dull thuds rocked De Vos despite her enclosed helmet. She looked around and saw an ODST with an M90 over his shoulder. "Shotgun!"

The ODST took the weapon from his back and threw it to her. She caught it, waved her hand to signal other units to cease fire, and then jumped up. Leveling the weapon, she came face to face with a group of Jackals and Grunts. Cycling the sliding fore-end and squeezing the trigger as fast as she could, De Vos watched as the impacts sent the aliens flying off their feet in a shower of busted armor and blood. Just as she emptied her weapon, the other ODSTs got to their feet and began laying heavy fire on the remaining Covenant. De Vos slung the shotgun over her shoulder, picked up her M6C, drew her combat knife, and vaulted over the barrier. At the same time, Major Holst led one of their companies over the adjacent barrier, flanking one of the Jackal phalanxes, and cutting them down with accurate small arms fire.

De Vos fired at a group of retreating Grunts and then jammed her blade into the neck of one Jackal. As the alien gurgled its last breaths, she fired the remaining rounds at more Grunts. Withdrawing the knife, she hurried underneath the Type-27 turret and ordered one of her anti-tank teams to regroup on her.

"Specs show that the central power cell is under that hatch in the center," De Vos said, pointing at it. "Hammer it with rockets until it opens!"

"Yes, Captain!"

The backblast was clear and the gunner fired the M41. Both rockets detonated against the hatch and charred it, but didn't blow it open. De Vos was not going to waste anymore time. When she looked over her shoulder, she could see the Marines Raiders and their mechanized support slowly pushing through the base. The armored gauntlet advanced steadily, deliberately destroying everything in their path. So many Covenant troops were retreating, Holst had to divert another company to establish a perimeter facing the Marines so the enemy didn't hit their own flank.

De Vos called up two more anti-tank teams, arrayed them in a line, and ordered them to fire at the same time. Six rockets slammed into the bottom of the Mantis turret. Volley by volley, the plating was broken open. Chunks of charred metal fell below the massive gun. Then, a glowing white plasma cell was exposed.

"Hit it!"

All three launchers fired both rockets in rapid succession. The cell erupted and fell out of its compartment; when it landed, it sparked, flickered, and tied. "Fall back, fall back!" De Vos shouted. The ODSTs got up, vaulted over the barriers, and dashed for their original positions. Before they even reached the positions, the turret exploded. First the base of the turret blew off, flying off in a shower of plasma flames and landing beside the tripod. Secondary explosions occurred around the joints and the legs fell on top of one another.

Major Holst immediately jumped onto the comms.

"_I'm Alone_, this is Wardog Six, anti-air installation destroyed!"

Lieutenant Koroma's smooth voice filled the link.

"Roger Wardog Six, dispatching _Determined Guardian _and _Lion's Den_. CAS in effect. Hold position and wait for the Marine Raiders."

Within minutes, Longswords filled the air and began launching ordnance at one of the spires. Banshees that were just beginning to take off were destroyed just as they left their platforms. Orange-purple detonations blossomed all over the spires. Like flies around a corpse, the Longswords persisted and destroyed more facilities. Then they banked, ascended, and disappeared. De Vos looked towards the Marines, who were coming even further and were bracketed on either side by burning Covenant structures. Overhead, _Determined Guardian _swept into the planet's atmosphere, loomed larger until it was over the base.

"Alpha Six, Wardog Six, we have you on scanner. Hang onto your helmets, over," said the ship's communications officer. Moments later, massive golden cannon shells descended from the guns on either side of the ships and crashed into the raised Covenant buildings. The impacts were so heavy, the superstructure of each facility did not so much explode as it was sheared off from the rest of the building. It was a tremendous drumfire and the giant bolts continued to smash into the facilities on either side of the base. Assembly yards and factories the infantry were not able to access were soon destroyed.

De Vos scanned the environment, searching for targets, but no Covenant infantry presented themselves. Her motion track was clouded with yellow dots and no red. At the northern end of the facility, at the base of the crumbling aircraft pads, she could see little movements. The Covenant were preparing their last redoubt.

Just as she finished scanning, the Marine Raiders rendezvous with the ODSTs. Major Royce appeared and Major Holst went up to meet him.

"Casualties?" Holst asked, his VISR depolarizing.

"Light."

"About the same," Holst said. "We need sixty seconds to load our wounded into your Hogs. Then we'll advance to the EZ together."

"I'll attach one of my platoons to one of your companies; three columns."

"Got it."

The two officers saluted one another, returned to their respective units, and began issuing orders. Groaning, grunting, wounded ODSTs were loaded into the back of the Warthogs. Marine Raiders began filtering towards their assigned units. Once the wounded were loaded, Holst went to the head of the center column and waved his hand. "Move out!"

The Warthogs sped forward with the joint Marine Raider-ODST unit moving at a trot. They proceeded for nearly one hundred meters before a burst of heavy plasma fire. Pink needles pummeled the front of Warthogs. Green and blue plasma cut a dozen men down and several troopers who stopped to pick them up were wounded. Gunners on the rear of the Warthogs returned fire; tracer rounds arched back and forth across the Covenant positions. Purplish-white streaks from Gauss cannons scattered entire squads of Grunts or Jackals. Rockets destroyed multiple barriers, reducing them to burned purple chunks.

Overhead, a large box formation of Longswords approached the spire and hordes of missiles struck the Covenant. Plumes of gray ash, rock, and blast Covenant defenses flew skyward. When the Longswords peeled away, a number of Pelicans in V-formations descended, pummeled the Covenant forces with rockets, and then cleared the air. Then, from behind the spire loomed _Lion's Den_. A golden flash emanated from its bow and a MAC round struck the spire. It collapsed seemingly into one thousand pieces before ending up in a gigantic, burning pile.

"This is Wardog Six, requesting exfil!" Major Holst cried triumphantly over the comms. From the bank of clouds overhead descended the Albatrosses and a fleet of Pelicans.

De Vos saw an empty passenger seat in one of the Warthogs, ran to it, and jumped in. Grabbing an MA5B sitting in a holder next to the center console, she took it in hand and began firing at the stragglers that remained. Withering plasma fire flew by her helmet and she could feel the heat from each bolt. When a concentrated burst of enemy fire came towards the Warthog, De Vos quickly ducked down. She heard a grunt behind her and looked over her shoulder. The Marine Raider gunner clutched his shoulder and fell backwards. Dropping the MA5B, she scrambled into the rear which was filled with wounded Marines, grabbed hold of the M41 Vulcan, and began firing. After several prolonged bursts of fire, the Pelicans launched another volley of missiles and finally decimated the enemy position.

One by one, the dropships turned around, opened their rear hatches, and the crew chiefs began waving them on. Wounded men were given priority while Warthogs rumbled onto the Albatrosses. ODSTs filled in the space in between the Warthogs, standing nearly shoulder to shoulder in the heavy dropships.

Once she dismounted, De Vos began ushering her troops onto the aircraft. As she did, she surveyed the damage the Marine Raiders did. Behind them was burning rubble, roiling smoke, and fields of corpses.

* * *

Vivian stood at the front of the bridge, her hands folded behind her back. The Covenant resupply station was larger than she initially expected. As the _I'm Alone_, _Best of the Best_, and _Batavia_ came closer, it began to dwarf the bridge screens. At first, it appeared there was no activity around the station. Then, several ports emerged, cloaked in bright white lights from the hangars.

"Decatur, get bow cameras on those ports," Vivian ordered. One of the tactical screens briefly turned black, then showed the real time imaging of the resupply station. Banshees and Seraphs began to fly out, form up, and then began heading towards the ship.

"Lieutenant Bassot, get our point-defense blocks up and running. Lieutenant Tsang, recall our Longswords, those enemy fliers are a serious threat to our transports. Get our Shortswords prepared to strike" Vivian ordered, turning sharply on her heel as she returned to her station. When she took her seat, Decatur appeared on the AI pedestal.

"Longswords inbound, ma'am. Ground forces are evacuating: they shall be in the air within two minutes. Objectives complete."

"Thank you, Decatur. Koroma, inform _Best of the Best _and _Batavia_ they may fire MAC's and Archer missile pods at their discretion. Sosa, move the _I'm Alone _twelve degrees to port and then reduce speed once you hit my nav marker."

"Aye, ma'am!" Koroma and Sosa said in unison.

"Bassot, give me the charge on the MACs. Decatur, display _Best of the Best _and _Batavia's _charges."

"Full charge, Captain!"

The tactical displays showed full bars for both _Best of the Best _and _Batavia_. Suddenly, the bars began to deplete. Vivian looked forward again and saw the golden streaks fade across the void and massive fireballs rippling across the resupply station.

"Bassot, fire at will!"

The _I'm Alone _shuddered and the very first MAC round struck one of the station's hangars. The rectangular light disappeared as the hull collapsed around it. Just as Bassot fired the second round, the first Banshees and Seraphs passed by the bridge. Purple plasma bolts riddled the hull and across the screens. Streaks of point defense weapons fire began cutting through space. Some of the enemy aircraft were reduced to puffs of space dust or exploded in tiny gouts of plasma flame. But the Covenant fliers returned and launched missiles. The _I'm Alone _shuddered and Vivian instinctively clutched the arm rests of her station.

She hit one of the communication links. "Damage control, report!"

"Hull plating along the forward sections of Levels Three and Four have sustained damage but the exterior plating has held. Dispatching fire crews as a precaution."

"Copy, keep me informed," Vivian ordered. "Decatur, where are my Longswords?"

"Imminent, madam!"

Moments later, silver aircraft streaked by the bridge. Missiles and autocannons lit up the darkness in front of the _I'm Alone. _Countless Banshees began to burn out, break up, or retreat. Seraph fighters stayed longer, looping around the Longswords, rolling and banking to avoid missiles. Nearly two dozen separate dogfights occurred right in front of the ship.

"Decatur, update me on our ground forces."

"First transports are returning to the hangars. Second, third, and fourth waves incoming."

"I'm not happy with the damage to that station," Vivian growled, "Koroma, net message: inform the Longswords to clear the lane, we're firing our MAC's again."

"Yes, ma'am!"

As soon as she sent the message and the interceptors broke off. The Banshees returned soon after and the Seraphs continued strafing the UNSC ships. Almost at the same time, the ships fired their main cannons again and the MAC rounds struck the station. Secondary explosions broke out, fires erupted from cracks in the hull. _I'm Alone _fired her next two MAC rounds and caused massive damage across the station hull. Hangars, bulkheads, and dock extensions collapsed or broke up. _Best of the Best _and _Batavia _fired as well, blasting huge flaming holes in the hull. Then, _Determined Guardian _and _Lion's Den _fell into the line formation and fired their primary weapons. The MAC rounds struck true and more secondary explosions began blossoming all across all levels of the bulbous space station. Archer missile pods were fired and, unabated by point defense weaponry, struck the station. Large chunks began to detonate and separate from the main station. Soon, huge explosions appeared and the entire station began to break up.

"Target destroyed, ma'am," Decatur said professionally. "Shortswords are beginning their bombing run and our ground forces have returned to the ships."

"Koroma, issue a recall for our Longswords. Sosa, I'm dispatching coordinates for our slipspace jump. Tsang, send these separate coordinates for the other ships. Proceed at half-speed so the Shortswords can catch up."

"Aye, Captain!" the officer exclaimed. Vivian activated the ship's intercom and leaned towards the microphone.

"Now hear this, now hear this, all targets destroyed. Prepare for slipspace jump!"

The bridge crew gave a small cheer before resuming their duties. Koroma informed Vivian the Shortswords completing their carpet bombing and were returning to ship. As they _I'm Alone _proceeded to the slipspace coordinates, Vivian observed the aft cameras. As the Shortswords began returning to the ships' hangars, the Covenant resupply station was still blowing up. Beyond it was the debris field of destroyed ships, lingering in the vacuum of space. After observing it for several moments, Vivian smiled confident and deactivated the camera feed.

Lieutenant Sosa turned around in her seat.

"Ma'am, we're ready to jump."

"Wait one, Lieutenant. Decatur?"

"All Shortswords, Longswords, and ground forces have returned to the ships. All ships prepared for slipspace jump."

"Thank you. Sosa, take us out."

As the golden-blue light began to envelope the _I'm Alone _and the ship, Vivian closed her eyes, leaned her head back against her seat, and sighed happily.

* * *

**Words: **6,187

**Pages (Google Docs): **15

**Original Font: **PT Serif

**Original Font Size: **11

**Original Line Spacing: **1.5

**Author's Note: **Despite familial interruptions, writer's block, shitty work schedules, and multiple projects, I've been able to complete my main goals for the week! That's what, two, three weeks now? That's a good start. Granted, I didn't upload a chapter of _To Be Brave, _that's a side project and thus it won't occupy my full attention compared to this work and my off-site work. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it and we'll get to some more action soon enough. Now, I'm going to respond to the comment(s) and then take a bath. Just _try _and stop me.

**Comment Responses: **

**MightBeGone: **Hey no problem, I'm glad things are alright on your end. Yeah, things are very dicy, there's some tough moments, but now that they've gotten to a point of normalcy (if combat can be deemed normalcy) we might see the situations synthesize or at the very least stabilize. Or maybe they won't. Who knows? I do, I'm the author, but you'll find out next time! Glad to see you, thanks for reading!


	21. Chapter 21: Smoke

Chapter 21: Smoke

* * *

As soon as the Pelican hatch opened, the squad piled out. Nobody spoke; some were still catching their breath. Frost was the last one out, following Carris and Grant. From the dim red interior of the Pelican and into the stark white lights of Hangar One, it took a moment for Frost's eyes to adjust. Blinking and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, he finally was able to see clearly. All over the hangar, crews disembarked from Longswords and Shortswords. Taking off their helmets, they shook hands and smiled at one another. Warthogs rolled down Albatross ramps; medical teams raced towards them with roller stretchers. Wounded Marines and ODSTs were quickly disembarked from the Warthogs, put on the stretchers, and raced out of the hangar. Corpsman handed breathing tubes and IV bags to Navy nurses or just kept running alongside the stretchers. Walking wounded limped after them or were carried by two comrades. Many were in good spirits despite their plasma burns.

Instead of filing back to the barracks, the Marines began to linger in Hangar One. Everyone was looking at each other as if they were stupefied. Their eyes were wide, their mouths open, their BDU's covered with so much stone dust they were nearly gray. Weapons were held loosely, helmets were lopsided, and their armor plating was burned by plasma bolt grazes. Everyone looked utterly exhausted as well as shocked.

"Holy shit," Grant finally said.

"Holy shit, we nailed them," Bishop said.

"Fucking-A, lads," Maddox said, taking out a pack of cigarettes, slipping one out, and lighting.

Similar, bemused declarations began to spread between the other Marines. With each cry, the noise grew louder and louder until the entire company was cheering. Men started tossing their helmets into the air, hugging, fist bumping, and high-fiving one another, extolling their performance with as much profanity. At first, Frost found he could not join. He stood to the side, smiling wider than he had in months, drinking in the sight of the Marines celebrating. Even the officers ecstatic and joined in the rabble-rousing with the enlisted men. The ODSTs who filtered through the crowd looked terribly confused upon the Marines; very few joined in. But the high spirits were like an infection and soon he joined the fray. He felt hands on his back, fists against his shoulder pauldrons, and taps on the back of his helmet.

Turning to face his squad, who were almost lost in the congratulatory fray, he found them all smiling. Walking to them, he Grant and Moser by the shoulders, pulling them in. The rest closed in as well.

"Marines," he said, "I think we have our balls back. Welcome back to the suck."

"And you were worried we would be out of our depth," Grant said, poking Frost's chestplate.

"Let's not get too big for our boots. But we did good work down there. If we can keep that up, we can pull off the next op, the next, and the next."

He was about to go on, but cries rang out from the Navy personnel, 'Captain on deck!' Everyone turned towards the bow. Standing on the platform was Vivian, hands folded behind her back, her gray tunic crisp. She was wearing a broad smile and her already tanned face seemed to be glowing. Taking a step towards the railing, she gripped the top railing and leaned forward.

"That was the first of many targets. There are dozens more in the surrounding systems. We're going to hit them all. You're granted two hours to yourselves before entering cryo. Good work, you're dismissed."

Vivian stepped away from the railing, leaving no time to salute or cheer. But before they could continue exalting in their victory, they saw other personnel removing the dead from the Warthogs. Body after body was carefully placed upon stretchers, covered with a blue sheet, and slowly carted away towards the ship's morgue. All laughter, congratulations, and cheering ceased as the Marines looked upon their fallen comrades. Some men took off their helmets or soft covers and their arms fell to their sides. A few staggered over to the stretchers and followed alongside, tears in their eyes, shed for close friends. Along with the dead Marines there were fallen ODSTs, bulky in their mottled gray armor.

Out of the crowd of remaining Helljumpers came Captain De Vos. In one hand she carried her M7S and under her opposite arm she carried her helmet. Her face was still covered in a sheen of sweat and her hair was loose from its bun. Walking slowly alongside some of her troopers, she appeared somber, but there was an air of dignity any service member could see. Their victory was not lost on her, nor was the sacrifice of her troops. Such knowledge could not heal a broken heart, however. To the Gunnery Sergeant's surprise, Major Royce joined her, still wearing his balaclava and covered in so much stone dust was coming off him in thin wisps that looked like smoke. He shifted his BR55, slinging it over his shoulder and didn't cast a single glance towards the Marines. Everyone watched until the last of the dead disappeared into the _I'm Alone's _corridors.

Standing among both the stone-faced and the tearful, Frost was reminded of a medieval battle. There was no support, no technology, and hardly any strategy. It came down to two walls of heavily armed and armored men and their mettle. When the lines met, there was nothing but mud and blood, terrified, engraved screaming; slashing swords, thrusting spears, and falling axes. When it was over, one side was running away or so decimated there were few survivors. Those who stood victories did not celebrate their triumph for the glory of God or extolled their monarch for seeing his imperial ambition through. Their fists were raised skyward and their voices extolled the heavens for their mere survival. To have survived such an onslaught was almost unthinkable. Each man stood there, fist and sword raised, smiling, laughing, crying, but ultimately confused at how he still drew breath.

But when the cheering died and the men sat down to rest, they did so in a field of brutalized corpses. It didn't matter if they were a noble, a knight, a man at arms, a peasant impressed as a levy. Combat united them as comrades, brothers in arms, and now countless of their number lay dead. Never were they to march or sing together again and they would not be able to enjoy the fruits of their victory. When the glorious day came to return to their homeland, their wives and children would be left wanting. Upon this realization, what could those ancient warriors do but sit and weep? It was the price of victory, the terrible, twisted, strange nature of reaction after a battle. One was exhilarated at having survived and the primordial urge to win was satisfied, but the tragedy was mirrored in their empty faces and glimmering eyes.

Frost looked back and saw Marines covered their faces with their hands. Men began to lean on one another, cry into others' shoulders, and embrace one another as if they were blood brothers. Some could no longer stand and fell to their knees. Others simply sat down, crying into their sleeves or their hands. Others viciously wiped their eyes with the back of their hands and were helped up by friends. So the procession journeyed towards the barracks. As they walked, the Marines once again found themselves. Tears were dried and wiped away, breaths drawn, heads held up high. Their tall, straight, robust statures returned. It did not look as if they were grieving mere moments before. But a few still covered their faces or kept an arm around a fellow Marine. Such was the tumultuous nature of victory.

Frost lingered, watching them go. The squad hesitated as well, turning back to face them.

"Aren't you coming, Nate?" Langley asked.

"I'll catch up. I'm going to medical."

He didn't know if they thought less of him for deserting the unit at this time. Frost was well aware of how lucky he was to have someone he loved on the _I'm Alone. _Marines who had wives or sweethearts had to say their goodbyes over a video monitor before they left the Port. There was no telling when they would return to a UNSC installation which had that kind of technology. Their loved ones were lightyears away and the dread of that distance set in the moment that link was severed. For some Marines, it was absolutely crushing; the thought they would never see their families and homes could make him collapse. For others, it was a malignant sadness, something that clung onto them. Its claws did not dig too deeply but nevertheless, they were embedded.

But Frost had Jasmine. His love was close at hand and the comforts that came with it were easily accessible. He would understand if the others judged him for it. But he wasn't going to see her just yet.

* * *

Steele lay on his back, his hands folded on his upper chest, and stared up at the white ceiling. His blonde locks were scattered across the soft pillow and stubble was growing on his cheeks. Above and around him, medical machines which were practically Covenant technology to him. Red, yellow, and green numbers flashed on the black screens. Occasionally, something beeped. On one screen, a green horizontal line ticked upwards every so often. A clear bag with a host of black text on its back was hanging from a bag. From the nozzle, a tube ran into the IV on the soft underside of his elbow. He could see the inside of the tube was moist and the bag was nearly empty.

His eyes drifted from machine to machine, his only companions since he was first put into the medical bay. Turning his head, he looked down the row of medical cots surrounded by similar machines. All were empty. Looking the other way, he found the rest on his side of the pod were vacant as well. Lifting his head from the pillow, his eyes slowly ran down the entire opposite side; every single bed was unoccupied.

Grumbling, he let his head fall back on the pillow. It wasn't a particularly loud noise, but it was so quiet he knew it carried at least a little. Glancing towards the entrance on the aft end, he saw the clerk at his desk briefly look up from his terminal. The clique of nurses, clad in sky blue scrubs, also looked his way as well. Once they were certain everything was in order, they returned to their stations. Computer glasses reflected their shining orange and blue screens. Fingers danced across the keyboards, tapping so quickly and with such force he could hear it from the center of the bay.

Looking back up the ceiling, he sighed once more. This time it was louder and angrier. The keyboard tapping seemed to be growing incessant and louder. Steele ran a hand through his blonde hair several times. From the aft end, the typing grew even louder, as if somebody was pounding on a terminal keyboard right beside his ear. His hand froze, his fingers dug into his scalp, and clutched a clump of his hair. He pursed his lips, but began gritting and grinding his teeth so intensely he opened his mouth. Although he could not see himself, he was certain he looked like a feral dog baring its teeth. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to think of something, anything; being with the squad, working on his rifle, the last woman he slept with, the last dozen or so women he was with, what Carris thought of him for that kind of behavior, was the raid going well, were they back, they had to be they were in slipspace already, did they win? Was Carris alright? Was Frost, everyone? The typing's rapidity grew more intense; like he was surrounded by stuffy clerks and their drab terminals.

Steele's deep blue eyes opened and he sat up so fast his chest ached.

"If you don't stop that fucking typing right now I'm going to break your keyboards over your heads!" he hollered down the bay. All of the medical staff looked up at him, some more surprised than others. Their computer glasses caught the overhead lights so it appeared they were wearing shields of solid white across their eyes.

He held his angry gaze as long as he could, panting and wincing as the pain throbbed and reverberated in his chest. It hurt so badly sweat began to drip down his face. Eventually, he released a heavy breath and lay back down as gently as he could. The medical bay became quiet once more and he stared up at the ceiling, still drawing heavy breaths. It wasn't long before the typing resumed but it was not as nagging and loud as it seemed before. But then he heard the tell-tale sounds of feet coming down the aisle. Their gait was quick and orderly.

"Corporal Steele," said one of the nurses, who had light brown hair and a ponytail. Steele had not committed their names to memory and never really checked their name tags. "You're not supposed to make sharp movements."

"Leave me alone," he grunted. The nurse began checking the IV bag, holding her data pad underneath her arm.

"Trust me, I'd very much like to," she said in a flat tone, then flashed her green eyes at him. "But I'm under orders."

She smiled at him pleasantly. Steele just snorted.

"I want to smoke."

"You can't smoke in here," she said, then knelt down beside the bed. Opening one of the sealed, pressurized drawers built into the titanium frame, she withdrew a fresh IV bag. She then hung it on the hook on the opposite side of the IV stand. "It's bad for you, anyways."

Steele huffed and readjusted himself slightly, slowly, and carefully.

"Smoking isn't that bad."

"My nursing degree says it is," she responded as she finished mounting the IV bag. "Do you need anything? Food? Change of clothes? Bathroom?"

"Don't talk to me like a baby."

"I'm asking you very simple questions like an adult. If I wanted to talk to you like a baby, it'd be more along these lines." She bent over, put her hands on her knees, smiled very wide, and her eyes widened happily. "Does somebody need to go potty? Do you, _do you? _Oh, I bet you do sweetie!"

"Can you hand me a scalpel so I can end my own suffering?" Steele asked. The nurse stood back up straight and folded her arms across her chest.

"Easy there, Marine. Any language like that has to be noted in my report; you wouldn't want to go to a host of therapy sessions after your ribs recover, would you? That could be another two or three months being stuck on the ship and not going on missions."

Steele stared at the nurse for a long time, blinking. All she did was stand over him and stare back. Eventually, he cleared his throat.

"I'm...I'm fine, I don't need any help right now."

"Are you sure?" she asked as she checked her wristwatch. "It's getting a little close to your checkup. This time we need to check your temperature. You're going to have to roll over."

"Ain't one of these machines got something on it that can tell you my temperature?" Steele asked, looking around at the various screens.

"I prefer to do it the old fashioned way."

The nurse reached into another drawer, took out a rectal thermometer, lowered her hand slightly, and then brought the device up several inches. At first, the scout sniper did not say anything. Then, he grinned, propped his arms behind his head, and leaned back comfortably.

"Joke's on you, I'm into that," he lied, trying to sound confident. The nurse bounced her eyebrow, leaned closer, and smirked devilishly.

"You won't after I'm done with you." Steele's smile disappeared and he lowered his arms to his side. Suddenly, he felt very small and vulnerable. The nurse was looming over him so severely she blotted out the light and her shadow covered him entirely. Eventually, the nurse stood back up abruptly, smoothed out her scrubs, and checked her data pad. "I suppose it can wait though. Are you going to be a good boy, Corporal?"

"Yes," Steele replied meekly.

"Good," she chimed, turned on her heel, and went back to her station. Steele leaned forward slightly and watched her go. While he was relieved, he did relish the sight of her swaying hips.

Grinning a little to himself, he shook his head and began to lay back down. Just before he did, there was a commotion in the hall outside the windows. The nursing staff jumped to their feet and went through the door. Dozens of other medical staff members came rushing down the corridor, leading or running alongside stretchers. Corpsmen bearing obvious signs of battle were with them. On each stretcher was a wounded Marine or ODST; some were placid and immobile, others writhed and screamed. Orders began being issued loudly and in quick succession.

At first, he thought they were going to be moved into his medical bay. Much to his surprise, all the casualties streamed past the windows and disappeared deeper into the _I'm Alone's _infirmary. It was like watching a macabre parade on fast forward. Despite their speed, he could see the wounded troops' agonized faces, open mouths, their lips drawing back to reveal rows of white teeth. Lines were etched into their faces as they squeezed their eyes shut. Some swore, others cried for help or medicine, while others wailed for a faraway loved one. Not long after, less severely wounded Marines began to follow in their wake. These men were helped along by others while a few limped on their own. More medical staff rushed to them and helped them down the hall.

He had not been able to spot any of his friends. Steele was acquainted with most of the Marines of Alpha Company and the regiment as a whole. They were all known to him but he wouldn't go as far as to call them friends. At first, it was reassuring not to see his companions among them. But the relief passed quickly. Just because they weren't among the wounded didn't mean they were alive.

Drawing a shaky breath, he looked back towards the entrance the wounded came through. The doors remained shut. Laying back down, he ran both his hands through his hair. He could feel his heartbeat racing; the machine was beeping faster. Eventually, he held his hands on his forehead and listened to his own breathing growing faster and heavier. He felt helpless, hopeless, and frustrated. It was all he could do not to trip the IV out of his arm and storm out of the medical bay. He could do it, he thought, the medical staff wouldn't be able to stop a Marine Scout Sniper when he was pissed off.

A set of doors slid open. Steele lowered his hands. Walking down the bay came Frost, his BDU covered in gray stone dust. Taking off his helmet, the Gunnery Sergeant smiled a little as he approached.

"Did everyone-"

"Everyone's fine," Frost said, standing beside Steele's bed.

"Fucking hell," Steele sighed in relief, running his hand down his face. When he finished, he exhaled and looked back at Frost. He seemed more at ease than he did prior to the slipspace jump. His shoulders were relaxed, his stature stooped amiably, the grip on his MA5B as well as his helmet in his other hand was very relaxed. Before, his gray eyes gleamed with fire, but now they returned to their usual misty calm.

Slinging his MA5B over his shoulder, Frost pulled up a nearby stool and sat down.

"All the training paid off. We were a well-oiled machine. Casualties were minimal and the operation was a complete success. Word is we'll be hitting new targets soon."

"Peachy," Steele said, folding his arms across his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Frost's smile fade. The Gunner Sergeant sat up a little straighter, his brow furrowed and lips pursed.

"I thought you'd be happy to know it worked out well."

"Why do you think the _worst _Marine in the regiment would care about that?" Before Frost could speak, Steele looked over at his friend. "This military nonsense is for the birds. Left, right, left, right, salute this dolt, salute that ponce, learn a bunch of acronyms, swab the deck, clean your rifle, get lousy pay to risk your life. You're right, I never cared about being a Marine. Just wanted to get away from that shithole I called home. Guess it was kind of stupid in the end. But when you said that, it..."

Steele found his voice faltering and he had to look away for a few moments. Feeling even more stupid, he shook his head and cursed under his breath. Sighing heavily, he looked back. "...it really got to me. I can take it from Hayes, from Royce, from that bastard Swing, but not you. Anyone but you."

He tried to sit up but a sharp pain resonated on his left side. Immediately, he clutched his side. After a moment, he felt Frot lean over him, gently take him under his shoulders, and move him up just enough so that he was sitting but still in a comfortable position. After he was situated, he took a little time to catch his breath and let the pain fade. Frost sat back down, resting his hands on his thighs. Steele kept one hand over his sore ribs and the other rested limply on the bed.

After a few minutes spent in awkward silence, Steele let his head fall back against the frame. Staring up at the ceiling, he let out a defeated sigh. "Fucking pathetic here, man. Pumped up with meds, confined to bed, winging. I'm dying for a smoke."

Frost grinned and shrugged.

"Sorry. The last thing I need is Jasmine marching in here to see you taking a drag on a smoke I gave you."

"The Frost I knew wasn't scared of pretty girls," Steele said, then tilted his head to the side. "Well, actually, he kind of was." It was impossible not to smile. After a moment, Frost did too and he began to snicker. Seeing Frost's eyes wrinkle up when he laughed always made him seem years younger. In boot camp, he used to laugh so hard his eyes would squeeze shut, he would fall onto his side on the bunk, and hold his gut laughing. He only ever laughed that hard when Steele said something like that.

When Frost finished chuckling, he looked up at Steele. His smile was earnest and his gaze sincere. It was an expression Steele saw many times despite how rare it was for others. Between their squad, ever since boot camp, it was a brother's smile.

"I didn't know being a Marine meant something to you," Frost finally said. "I'm sorry."

"It doesn't. I mean, it sort of does. It ain't the same thing for me as it is for you. Maybe I just wanted to be something I thought I couldn't be. It's tough doing that next to guys like you. You took to it so well. I was still struggling to tie up my bootlaces; I never wore boots before I joined the Marines. But you were faster, you didn't need any help."

"You beat me on the range."

"Shooting is the one thing I really like. It's all I'm good at, really."

"You were better with women, that's for sure." Frost smiled and clasped his hands together. "And you really were the best shot. Still are. I think there really is something in you that wants to be a good Marine. You wouldn't have attended Scout Sniper School and _passed _if you didn't care at all."

Frost freed his hands momentarily and then pressed them back together. "I love being a Marine. I used to think that it'll be hard when we're out to do anything else. Now, I realize, I haven't actually _done _anything else, Lou. What I've done as a Marine, it's all I've done, and not all of it's been good."

Steele stared at his friend for a long time. His gray eyes became far more misty, like stagnant fog banks. Slowly, the Gunnery Sergeant's head lowered and his hands clasped together again. Both hands gripped one another so tightly Steele thought they would start to shake. Then, his left leg began to bounce nervously.

Only once before had Steele seen his friend sit that way. He remembered the smoke and the snow, the smell of open flesh and burned trees. Men who looked like Marines walked in every direction, up, down, and across the slopes of the mountain. Fallen, burning trees were everywhere. Corpses were chained, tied, nailed, and hung to the trees that still stood tall. Fallen branches coated blasted, blackened earth. Voices far away and close shouted incoherently; those that were closer sounded like voices carrying across the shore. The far-off voices sounded like mournful ghosts. Marines emerged from the smoke and fog, individually, in clots, in squads, or in platoons. With them were young men and women, men of them in handcuffs. All were dressed in tattered green or brown paramilitary style clothing.

Other Marines appeared, stopping their comrades. Male prisoners were separated, pushed away, lined up, and shot down with single sweeps of an MA5. An officer came up, drew his M6C, and fired a single shot into the head of each body. When he finished, enlisted men rushed forward, hunched over the bodies, and began tugging out trouser pockets, rifling through coats, and emptying pouches. Credit chits, wallets, valuables ranging from watches to jewelry, was stripped from the dead. Remaining prisoners sobbed or cursed as they were dragged away.

With his rifle in his hands, Steele trudged through the destruction. His gaze shifted back and forth, back and forth, witnessing the carnage. It was like warfare from a bygone age. Less than a few meters away, three Marines wrapped a noose around the neck of a gagged Insurrectionist prisoner. Once they tightened it, they took up the end of the rope and began pulling. Slowly but surely, the victim was raised into the air, squirming, kicking, their eyes bulging and turning red then purple, until they finally grew still. Laughing, one Marine ran up, clambered up the trunk, tied the rope around the branch, and descended. Across from them, an entire squad threw down an Insurrectionist who couldn't have been more than seventeen years of age. Instead of shooting him, they began to beat on him, kick him, pound him. All their blows were vicious. What was so striking about the scene was the teenager made no cries of pain. He reacted, his face tightening with every blow, struggling to protect his head.

He walked on, upwards, searching. Two Marines wrestled two men who refused to be parted. When the one on the right broke free and tried to release the man who was still resisting handcuffs, the other Marine merely drew his M6C and shot him through the head. Blood, pieces of skull, and bits of brain flew from the large exit wound. He crumpled over into a heap. The man let out a pained, animalistic, sorrowful wail and fell upon his companion, sobbing. His captor did not hesitate, drawing his own sidearm, and shot him in the neck. He fell atop the body, still as a statue.

Occasionally, there was a shout, a gout of flame, an explosion sending a great column of brown earth and branches upwards, and the rattle of gunfire. Finally, he found a stump beside the trail. A crowd of Marines were in front of it at first, but when they parted like a curtain on a theater stage, he found Frost sitting on it. The young Marine's head was bowed and his back bent. Both gloved hands, covered in blood, were clenched between his legs and his left one bounced continuously. At his foot was his combat knife, drenched in blood, embedded in the soil. When he looked up, his gray gaze was tragic. Tears rolled down his cheeks, cutting through the dust and dirt before disappearing into his youthful stubble. Despite his Battle Dress Uniform, he looked more like a child playing soldier. Sniffing loudly, he shook his head.

At his feet was the corpse of an Insurrectionist. He was just as old as Frost, perhaps even younger. His throat was open and fresh, dark red bloody leaked from the wound. The ragged coat he wore was open and his chest was pierced by dozens of stab wounds. Blood coated his torso.

"I don't know why I did it," Frost said.

The words still echoed in his mind. For a time, he watched Frost sit on the stool in the medical bay, his leg bouncing, his hands clenched, and his head bowed.

"I think something else has been on your mind, Nate," Steele finally said. Frost looked up, opened his mouth, and then shrugged. "What Carris said in the barracks, that got to you too."

Frost's leg grew still and his gaze hardened. Slowly, his hands parted and gripped his knees. Steele held up his hand. "Fuck the handbook, that's not what I mean. You can't sit there and tell me you haven't thought about it."

Briefly, Frost looked around to see if any of the medical staff was watching. None were within earshot, at least if they kept their tones muffled.

"It's been getting to me," Frost admitted. "I've tried to write it off. Almost losing command of the squad, becoming Marine Raiders, high-risk ops, or even you and Carris. But I think it's all a cover, a justification. What I did at the Port..." Frost shook his head, bit his lip, and sighed. "...it scared me. I didn't go down there to kill them, I didn't want to kill them, and when it was over, I regretted it."

"But you saw Skopje, didn't you?" Frost nodded and Steele looked forward. "Guess I did, too. But when we were finally down there, I knew where I was. Didn't you?"

"At first, and then it all went away. I felt angry, I felt unhinged, unbalanced, off, and I wasn't in control. Just...all this hate, all this guilt, it came back. I didn't want it to. I made my peace. I didn't want to kill anymore people. And then it happened." Frost shook his head again. "Something's wrong with me, man."

"Yeah, there is," Steele said after a few moments. Frost looked at him, shocked. The scout sniper shrugged. "There is. You said you moved on. You haven't. If your head's still filled with smoke, you have to clear it, otherwise we're going to get killed. One successful op doesn't mean you won't hold up on the second. You need help."

"Help?"

"Talk to Jasmine."

"No. _No. _She won't understand."

"She _loves _you."

"Not if I tell her the truth. She'll think I'm a monster." Frost looked around again and sat forward. "And think of the position she'll be in? She's counseling a criminal and she'll have to choose between the man she loves and the law. I don't want to do that to the woman I love. And Waters?" Again, he stopped, gathered himself, and looked at Steele seriously. "And I'm _not _going to prison. Even if I know it's wrong, I won't go, I can't go. There's going to be some other way to...to...atone, I don't know what else to say."

"Fuck atonement. I'm not going to jail either," Steele hissed. "But I'm not getting my head blown off because you think you're somewhere else. Get help."

"I can't tell her."

"What's worse? Telling her the truth or living a lie?"

"Like you care about either."

"This ain't swiping dessert from the mess hall back in boot, Nate. This is your mind. I'm not letting you go back to the Ripper."

* * *

Nearly a week after the first raid, Vivian was on the bridge of the _I'm Alone _at the end of another slipspace jump. She left cryo early and was sitting comfortably at her station. Sosa, Bassot, Koroma, Tsang, Delany, Solak, and Uwem were all at their stations working diligently. Reports and systems feedback began to run across her screen. Decatur began to process excess information as well, working silently beside her. There was little talking as everyone monitored their stations.

Tsang's scans turned out negative; the system they were in consisted of three planets and two moons. An asteroid belt rotated around the planet closest to the sun and a rusty debris field of broken ships from a battle from so many years ago drifted along. No Covenant ships were present. Turning to the tactical display on the starboard side of the bridge, she watched as the readouts for all the other ships in the task unit appeared. First came the frigates, then _Best of the Best_, then _Batavia_, and finally _River Styx_. The moment they finished checking in, Vivian stood up.

"Lieutenant Koroma, establish a video transmission between the _I'm Alone _and _River Styx_."

"Aye, ma'am!"

The request was sent and then accepted within a moment's notice. Less than a minute later, the tactical display on the starboard side turned black and then an image of Captain Rundstrum. Immediately, the imagining cleared up and entered real time. He was now sporting a thicker beard, complementing his Scandenavian physique. After an exchange of salutes, he grinned confidently.

"Captain Waters, it's been sometime. It's good to see you."

"Likewise, Captain."

"Word on the grapevine is you went native, Waters. Took off your tunic and traded it for a BDU. Folks are saying you jumped ship and became a Marine Raider. Any truth to that?"

Vivian, standing in front of the screen with her hands folded behind her back, blinked at the camera. Instinctively, she looked over each shoulder. All her bridge officers were looking back at her. When they caught her gaze, they quickly returned to their work. Frowning, she shook her head and looked back at the ONI officer's smug expression.

"Yes, I completed Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing's Marine Raider course. But as you can see," she said, motioning towards her gray uniform, "I'm still a Navy officer."

"Leave the ground pounding to the jarheads, I get it," Rundstrum said cheekily.

"How did you hear about it when you were out scouting?"

"I'm an ONI officer, it's my job to know what everybody's doing."

"Fair enough. I trust you've drummed up a more complete list of viable targets."

"I've got a copy for you," He said. Rundstrum returned to his station, tapped a code into his terminal, and a moment later Vivian's equipment pinged with a notification. Instead of going to check, she waited for the ONI Captain to return to the camera. "We have Covenant fleets of various sizes on patrol, planetside bases and production facilities, staging grounds, resupply stations, and a whole lot of them."

"What's the closest target?" Vivian asked.

"A carrier group is in a system called The Separation, not too many lightyears from this one. One _CSO_-class supercarrier, two _CAS_-class assault carriers, two _CCS_-class battlecruisers, one _CPV_-class destroyer, and three _SDV_-class corvettes. Some heavy hitters there," he said, stroking his chin.

"A stand up fight might not be in our best interest then," VIvian said. "Decatur, transfer the contents of _River Styx's _report to my data pad please."

"Right away, madam...done!"

Vivian had her data pad under her arm and opened it. She ran down the list of targets and then correlated them with the operational plan for Operation: EXALT.

"By this time, the main fleet should have completely or nearly completed its first assault, yes?"

"Their first jump ended before your's and they sent me an update. They have taken the first objective and are pressing onto the next."

"Then this carrier group presents a major threat," Vivian said, closing her data pad. "We have our next objective."

* * *

**Words: **6,070

**Pages (Google Docs): **16

**Original Font: **PT Serif

**Original Font Size: **11

**Original Line Spacing: **1.5

**Author's Note: **A few minutes later but there you go. Also, that nurse in the middle of the chapter? Is she based on a real person, you might be wondering? Yes, yes she is. Is she as severe as that? No. Is she a great nurse? Hell yes. Is she my friend? It's been a while, but hopefully we can reconnect. Hey, if you liked her, maybe she'll be a character, I enjoyed writing her. I appreciated the title of this chapter and the imagery conjured up by Frost, comparing post-battle atmosphere to medieval warfare and Steele offering insight into the post-battle of 26th Century warfare. Lot of fun.

I should note my work schedule for this week and next is going to be kind of...shitty. I'm not going to have the same amount of time on my hands due to my job. That doesn't mean there won't be an update to this story and other ones; I got most of my off-site work done in advance. But there's a chance I might not be able to get them, just wanted to get that out there. Alright, comment responses real quick!

**Comment Responses**

**MightBeGone: **Thank you! Ground combat is something I really strive to make intense and fast-paced, but also descriptive. The struggle is to balance it out so it doesn't get bogged down. _I'm Alone _benefits from some slight suspension of realism (granted it's fanfiction and _Halo _so realism isn't the name of the game but it's something I try to respect) so I don't have to adhere to tactics too heavily. That filters through on its own, but you may find future combat to slow down and be more set-piece occasionally. Anyways, glad you liked it!

**Qrs-jg: **Ah, you've spotted it! This is a dilemma I've faced before in my _Halo _fanfiction: how to include ground warfare when an orbital strategy could just solve the problem. If the UNSC ships bombarded the facility, there probably wouldn't have been a need for infantry involvement. But the overall plot and narrative would have suffered without that element, so I figured the division between the resupply station target and the threat of the heavy AA gun, similar to that encountered in mission four of _Halo 3_, kept off the intended bombardment. But looking back, it could have been implemented with more finesse. It's something I'm going to work on in the future. But hey, I'm glad you liked it, thanks for reading!


	22. Chapter 22: Become More

Chapter 22: Become More

* * *

"Now hear this, now hear this," came Vivian's voice through the intercom, "the _I'm Alone _will be entering slipspace at fourteen-hundred hours. All crew not selected for skeleton crew detail report to the Cryonics Bay in by thirteen-thirty hours. That is all. Carry on."

Steele remained on his back, his arms behind his head, his left leg propped up on top of his right knee. Strands of thick blonde hair fell down either side of his face and stubble was growing thickly on his cheeks. The patient's outfit he wore felt too big where it should have been tight and tight where he should have had space. Not to mention it was surprisingly itchy; when he was wounded before all the gowns or clothes he wore while bedridden in countless ship infirmaries and Navy hospitals were quite soft to the touch. Still, at least the mattress was comfortable and the sheets cozy.

Kicking his raised foot in boredom, he looked left and right. None of the casualties from the first raid were in his medical bay. As morbid as it was to wish Marines recovering from wounds however grievous were present so as to keep him company. At least he could grill them for details on the battle; Frost was too stingy with his. He wanted to know what kind of shots they pulled off, what they managed to blow up, and how many Covenant they slaughtered. Kill statistics were something he enjoyed chatting about with other Marines; he didn't want his squad to catch on lest they consider him some kind of nerd.

It didn't even have to be that. They could talk about what kind of chow they were serving in the mess hall or the size, stink, or consistency of their latest bowel movement. Anything, anything at all, to take his mind off of Frost and Skopje. The towards words were connected but they seemed so out of place when he imagined them side by side. Frost, Skopje. Skopje, Frost. Both were bywords. Skopje hung over the 89th Regiment like a cloud of fat horse flies over a rotting cow carcass. Frost's name led to another one: Jack the Ripper. Among the UNSC Marine Corps, he was just one of many legendary warriors who cemented their reputation through combat. The difference between him and the others, they were bonafide heroes who knew how to throw lead at the enemy, wracked up impressive kill counts, and acted with great valor in the face of the Covenant. On the other hand, Frost was nearly synonymous with his combat knife, and his notoriety was dark like a shadow, one that demanded respect but also command awe and fear. Marines like him were rare and even Steele knew that. Many were kids who heard how tough the Corps was and they wanted to prove how many they were. What rude awakenings they faced when the first plasma bolts whizzed by their heads. Others kids were smart; they did their research and knew the Marines were the premier shock infantry in the entire UNSC. If you were going to war, the smart went with the best. Still, there were myriads more; outcasts looking for a home, prisoners given a choice between enlistment and prison, starry-eyed fools brainwashed by the propaganda, a few hoped some medals on their chest and a couple battlefield promotion would net them a bundle of credits, and strays like Steele who were just trying to get away from home.

Marines in the 89th were young and other than the regimental headquarters, most weren't even in their late twenties. Most came from poorer backgrounds and dysfunctional lives, mostly from the changes war demanded on Earth but a number who suffered the tragedies of a broken family. Then, there was Frost, some quiet kid from Nova Scotia, intelligent, poetic, and living in the relative comfort created by a well-known professor with a doctorate in musical history. Who would give up that life? When a kid like that graduated from secondary school, they had their pick of higher education institutions, get their education, sit out the war, and maybe even get a job that the draft couldn't touch. Or at least stave off the draft for a while; it had a way of infiltrating all walks of life.

But he did join up. One could blame the punishments levied against the families if the prospective candidate refused to enlist. It was that way for a lot of the Marines on the _I'm Alone. _Steele just leaped at the opportunity to ditch his family. Frost's family could have hefted the burden but he went anyways. Having never paid it much mind, Steele was beginning to think his friend would have ended up enlisting anyways. Like him, he needed to get away but perhaps, but not for the same reason. It was easy to hate him for it as Steele wouldn't have given those kinds of opportunities up. The disjointed nature between Frost the Marine and Frost the Pampered was further emphasized by his aptitude as a Marine. He took to training so well and combat was something he desired. All Marines wanted to fight, but it made Frost's mouth water when they were in boot camp. When he finally got it, saw what his hands could do, there was a shock. Just maybe he didn't realize how much he was going to enjoy it.

Sighing loudly, Steele ran his fingers through his mop of hair and shook his head.

"Need a fucking smoke for this," he muttered.

"Now, Corporal," said the nurse as she changed his IV bags. "We already talked about this. The last you need is to be puffing on a cigarette, you're supposed to relax your upper body. Not to mention there's plenty of health risks an able-bodied Marine _like yourself _should be aware of when it comes to smoking."

Steele scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Lady, if I wanted to get lectured on how to live my life, I ring my fucking mother."

"Well, as it turns out we don't have a phone you could use so I'm the best you got."

"I ain't gonna call you mommy even if you asked me too."

"That would depend on the circumstances," the nurse said, tying the bag off and resting one hand on her hip. She leaned down a little. "And you _would _be calling me mommy under the right circumstances."

She turned on her heely sharply and then smacked his leg down. It didn't hurt but the shock was surprising enough to Steele he jumped a little.

"Hey, I'm supposed to be fucking resting!" he complained.

"Resting your upper body," she reminded him over her shoulder, "the rest of you I could break if I wanted."

Steele blinked as she watched her strut down the aisle back to her station with the other nurses. Before she resumed her work, the door slid open and Steele was relieved to see Carris walk in. Instead of being in her armor, she was wearing a blank t-shirt with a white print of the UNSC Navy logo over the left breastplate. Both sleeves bore a rating of her rank; a single, red, downwards stripe. Above in white was another iteration of the Navy logo in white. She wore working uniform trousers in olive drab and a shining pair of leather boots. Her exposed, pale forearms were sinewy and her well-defined musculature seemed to press against her shirt. It was a stark contrast to her smooth face, pale save for a dusting of red on her cheeks, her soft but utterly vivid blue eyes, and her just slightly plump lips.

After flashing her ID at the clerk, she walked briskly down the aisle. When she was a few steps away, she smiled at him.

"Hello, Louis," she said, standing over him. Steele immediately reached over, grabbed her hand, and did his best to pull her down. It was like trying to pull a stone pillar down with a rope.

"Carris, you gotta get me outta here. If I stay any longer I think that nurse is going to try to fuck me while I sleep!"

Blinking, Carris stood up straight and looked back towards the nursing stations. The specialist in question was busy conferring with another nurse over a data pad. Seemingly unconvinced, Carris quirked an eyebrow, pursed her lips, and looked back at Steele. He nodded eagerly. "Right? You get what I'm talking about?"

"You're paranoid," Carris said gently although he could tell she was chiding him. "I think you've been cooped up here for too long and the light might be baking you slowly."

Steele looked up at the embedded light fixtures hanging overhead. At that moment, they seemed as bright as an afternoon sun and the rays nearly blinded him. Lowering his gaze, he put his other hand on top of her's as well.

"Please, get me out of here."

"I'm sorry, Lou. I don't think it'd go over well if I tried to bust you out of here. Things are locked down pretty tight and you really do need to recover."

"But I feel fine!"

Carris's amused smile faded somewhat. Sitting down on a nearby stool and rolling it over, her other hand still locked between his own, she reached over, turning her hand over as she did, and gripped the bottom edge of his shirt between her thumb and index finger. Steele blinked at her careful, deliberate touch. He could feel her knuckles drag against his skin, sending pleasant jolts up his spine. As her hand moved he let go of her other hand, allowing his to rest by his sides. The entire time, his gaze did not break from her's. Her blue eyes were focused and serious. She was so close he could see the white overhead lights reflecting in her deep irises. Complemented by her fair cheeks and pale pink lips, she looked particularly striking.

Eventually, she moved his shirt up and exposed most of his chest. Across his ribcage was a large, fading blotch. Its color was coffee stain brown like a birthmark. For a time, she stared at it intensely. Then, she lowered her hand until it hung above his skin, her fingertips just above it. Slowly, she let them touch the mark. The moment her hand, cold on her fingertips but warm in her palm, rested on his wound, Steele winced.

Carris looked up at him and smirked.

"Feeling fine?"

Steele smiled wide, clenching his teeth as he did.

"Stellar, love," he said, doing his best not to betray his pain. Carris withdrew her hand and pulled his shirt back down. She shifted from the stool to the edge of his bed, her back to him but turned enough that she could still face him. Her smile was gentle and even a little sad.

"Trust me, I want to get you out of here. Even though he and I aren't on the best terms right now, Frost is right. You've all done some growing up and it's time to act the part." She faced forward, pressed her hands together, and let them rest between her knees. "When I was finally billeted to the _I'm Alone_, I thought this was the most _ad hoc_, Wild West operation I'd ever seen. Everybody seemed like children. You, Frost, Captain Waters, even Dr. Ebrahimi. I looked around and I didn't see warriors. But once we took the Port I knew everything changed. We're actually having an impact on the war. We're making a difference. The gravity of our achievements and the desperation of our cause have finally sunk into the crew of this ship."

She lowered her head a little, her thick black locks falling around the sides of her face. "In a way, I was relieved. You can imagine the culture shock of joining such a unit when the one you were raised in was made up of the finest professionals the UNSC has ever produced. At the same time, it broke my heart. You were all young, smiling, laughing, glad of heart, quick to joke."

Steele smiled softly, sat up a little, reached over, and squeezed her shoulder.

"Hey, we still are."

She looked at him then, her blue eyes glinting.

"Not in the same way." Carris sighed and leaned back a little, propping herself up on her arms. She was careful not to put any weight on Steele's legs. "I suppose it was going to happen one way or another. You're still my friends and I'm going to fight as hard as ever for you."

She looked over at him and smiled. "I'm looking forward to the day the squad will have its Scout Sniper back."

Her tone was filled with soft endearment. It was so tender Steele could not help but chuckle stupidly, avert his gaze, and turn a little red in the cheeks. "I'm looking forward to the day you're back in the barracks, too."

At that, he quickly looked back at Carris. Her gaze was on the floor, her cheeks were tinged with red, and she was smiling. For a time, Steele blinked and didn't know what to say. Eventually, he was able to clear his throat and shrug.

"I mean, yeah, of course."

Carris looked up, a little surprised.

"I mean, for your company."

"Yeah, yeah, I get you, so we can hang out and stuff."

"Right. Go to mess and chat."

"Things like that and..." Steele's voice faltered, he looked down momentarily, shook his head, and scoffed. When he looked back up, he found Carris looking at him in confusion. "...love, I don't have the slightest clue what you see in me. I remember what you said in the hospital ward when I was first recovering. I know _that_. But I just can't figure it out. Would you really want to be with a fella who smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish, bangs anyone with two tits and a skirt, and couldn't give a rat's ass about these ridiculous fucking _traditions _all these military assholes seem to give a shit about?"

Carris laughed.

"By that logic, I don't know why you're distressed about a nurse who seems ready to mount you at any minute."

Again, she began to giggle. Steele couldn't think of anything to retort. He was drinking in the sight of her smile and her eyes. He couldn't help it; making Carris laugh was a near impossibility when she first joined the squad. Although he found her strange and aloof, something in him just couldn't stand her lack of connection. So he went out of his way to make her laugh, to see that grin; just to see her face change at times. In the confines of the _I'm Alone's _barracks, even the static expressions of a comrade's face could become paradoxically boring and aggravating. At that moment, he realized he hadn't been trying to make her smile like that to break up the monotony. When she was happy, he felt happy. In a way, he felt almost proud he could elicit those reactions from her and he delighted in them.

Carris noticed him staring and pushed some hair behind her ear. "There's a lot more to you than that. And you don't have to live in the context of your friends, either. I remember what you said that day too. If you think you owe him, me, and the others that much, that's not healthy for you, Louis. You're your own man. Frost is your friend and he's helped you so much, but you don't _owe _him anything. I'm sure if you spoke to him about it, he doesn't think you do either."

"I'm not sure," Steele said, looking away. He did not set eyes on anything in particular. There wasn't much to gawk at, anyways. But staring at the rows of hospital cots and blinking medical machinery, he was able to reimagine those first days of boot camp. After running through a gauntlet of screaming drill instructors, being read a list of rules and regulations that would see him kicked out, and being processed through a byzantine tree of paperwork. Once they finally reached their bunks, it was that polite, calm, quiet, fresh-faced lad who came up to him. Throughout boot camp, the lad treated him with kindness, indulged his bad behavior, covered for him when he made mistakes, and personally helped him with every aspect of their training. At first, Steele thought he was only helping him because he didn't want the rest of the platoon to get smoked by his poor performance. Once he realized it was genuine, they were inseparable.

It was hard to imagine just by looking at the smiling, gray-eyed boy he would become more than a Marine: a true killer of men. Yet, that kindness never departed. He was never embittered by what he did or the atrocities he witnessed. Somebody like that was a true warrior; someone who could perform horrible deeds yet retain their personality. Guilt was sustained, processed, and compartmentalized. Steele used to be certain Frost was able to fulfill that process better than any other Marine. It was what made him the strongest and the truest warrior among their number. Now, he was not so sure. Was it just a keen mind that was able to reconcile one's actions or was he truly sick? Did it happen during boot camp? Was it Skopje? Did he bring something with him from civilian life? Perhaps, it was all three.

"Nobody ever did anything for me as a kid. It still makes me mad. Old Town in London was a tough place to grow up, Carris. You could lose your faith in people in a place like that. Nate made sure that didn't happen. If there's anybody I trust, it's him."

"And he doesn't expect anything from you because of that. You're his brother."

"He expects me to be a Marine," Steele snorted.

"Because he cares about you and wants to see you be more than you are." Carris shrugged a little bit. "So do I."

"What is it with you two? I don't want to be a Sergeant or anything else. I didn't even want to be a full Corporal. It doesn't mean anything to me."

"You're thinking too small, focusing on superficial things like rank and responsibility. You have potential to be a better man, to educate yourself, learn, grow, just to be _more _than you are. The only difference between you and that kid in London's Old Town is your uniform."

Steele sank deeper into his cot and rested his hands on his stomach. Carris reached over, took his hand, and held it between her own. For a moment, Steele thought she was going to give him another serious speech about growing up and becoming a real Marine. Instead, she giggled. "Even if you're not wearing it right now," she joked.

He was able to crack a smile then.

"You're a real sweetheart, Carris."

She blushed a little and looked away momentarily. "You might see something more in me. But we're talking about _me_, here, so I have a say too. When I look inside, I don't see much. Not sure why everyone else sees someone who can become something they're not. You're right, there ain't much difference between me and that kid. So you know what's gonna happen? If, somehow, we beat the Covenant and we make it out of this bullshit alive, I won't stay in the Corps. Then what will I be? Some bum on a London Old Town street. Full circle, Carris. Why bother trying to change things if one day I'll just be another ex-Marine looking for work? I haven't ever been lucky but I think luck is the only thing that'll help me."

"Because if you apply yourself now, because if you act, _now_, you won't be some faceless, nameless, ex-Marine. What you do now will affect the rest of your life. Luck has nothing to do with it. Do you want to go back to be nothing?"

"No," Steele answered after a few moments.

"Then, it's time to act like a Marine," she said, smiling confidently. Steele just shook his head and tried to suppress his smile. Her attitude was becoming infectious. She could tell and that made it all the more amusing. Sliding further up the cot and letting go of his hand, she reached over and took him by the shoulder. "I'll help you."

"Are you my new DI?"

Carris grinned, reached over, and dug her fingers into his thick blonde hair.

"I will motivate you, Corporal Steele!" she said, pretending to sound like Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing. Gently, she wiggled his head back and forth in her grasp. Steele could tell she was trying to be careful not to tug too hard on his hair. But it was impossible not to laugh. Although it pained him, he sat up a bit more, wrapped his arms around Carris's neck, and pulled her into him. As her face planted into the base of his neck, she let go of his hair and Steele heard her make a small noise of surprise. It wasn't a yelp, definitely not a squeal, and by no means a squeak.

For a time, he held her that way. At first, Steele tried to come up with some way to tussle but the moment he felt her breath on the soft skin of his neck, he found himself unable to think. One of his hands moved up and rested on the back of her head, his fingers twisting some of her hair around them.

"I'm lucky to have you, that's for sure," he whispered in his ear. Carris didn't say anything. Instead, her arms carefully wrapped around him, gripping the back of his shirt. Feeling her breath and her hands upon him made Steele inhale deeply and then exhale warmly. He hoped to stay that way for a little while, at least.

* * *

When Vivian entered the _I'm Alone's _armory, she was greeted by the familiar sight of sparring rings, racks of free weights, and rows upon rows of bench presses, treadmills, and exercise machines of all types. At the aft section on the starboard side, personnel hammered away at paper and holographic targets with M6 series sidearms. Personnel attending advanced courses per their promotions streamed into the classroom sections. Underneath the enclosed observation platform, new arrivals clad in olive drab, blue, black, or gray tank tops and shirts, complemented by black PT shorts, trickled out of the changing rooms. Others, drenched in sweat, huffing for air, and red in the face, marched off to refresh themselves. With so many of the treadmills in use, scores of Marines, ODSTs, and Navy crew members jogged around the edge of the work out area. Some ran alone while others ran in squad or platoon sized groups, usually with a senior NCO or a junior officer. Most were in their PT gear, while a few of the infantrymen pushed themselves by wearing their full BDU's, stuffing their rucksacks with boxes of ammunition, and carrying another box in each hand.

In the large, square sparring rings, Marines practiced hand to hand combat drills. In one, it was a free for all between nearly thirty men. In another, the edge of the ring was lined with sitting Marines. In the center was Frost, wearing his BDU trousers and an olive drab tank top. Although he appeared small outside of his fatigues and armor, it was easy to forget he was a man of stature. His upper body, while not large like many of his fellow Marines, was well-defined by muscle. Despite his arms remaining in a resting position, she could clearly see the veins in his forearms.

Approaching the bottom of the ring, she folded her hands and watched his lecture. The Gunnery Sergeant seemed perfectly at ease. He wore a charitable smile which was further complemented by the short beard he wore. In his left hand, he held his combat knife in its scabbard.

"You want your fighting knife in an accessible position. The key aspects to that accessibility are your dominant hand and comfort." At this, many of the Marines snickered. Frost waved at them dismissively. "Hey, I'm serious. You want your knife to be somewhere you can just grab it but not to the point it's uncomfortable. You don't want it digging into your leg, foot, or ass, depending on how you wear. Balancing our rig loads is really important and the knife, however light it might feel in your hand, is a part of that weight. Choose wisely. M52B body armor is very modular so you have a lot of options when it comes to attaching your scabbard." Then, he held up his right hand. "This is my dominant hand, but I'm proficient enough with my left to be ambidextrous. We've all learned how to hold and fire an MA5 with our dominant and non-dominant hands. You need to learn how to effectively use a knife or another melee weapon with both hands too."

He tossed the scabbard from his left hand to his right, back again, and then repeated it several more times before he caught the scabbard and drew the blade. "It's not the same as drawing an M6, okay, this isn't the fucking Wild West and you're not a cowboy duelist. I find the best spot to place your knife is on the side of your body _opposite _of your dominant hand. That way you can reach across your chest—" he demonstrated by over-exaggerating his reach, "—and bring it to bear quickly. You might think having the knife on your belt below your dominant hand might be quicker, but it's actually kind of clunky."

He took a moment to clip the scabbard to the right side of his belt. Then, he reached down and began to draw it. "Sure, it seems fast, but the angle is pretty awkward if you're standing. It's not a comfortable way to move your arm. Reaching across your chest and then bringing your arm back is a very natural movement, not to mention if some Covvie shitheel is hauling ass towards you and almost has the drop on you with its hands or some kind of non-plasma melee weapon, you can use your arm to block it. After you block, you can bring your knife to bear on them immediately. Of course, if it's anything besides a Grunt, Jackal, or Skirmisher, you're probably fucked anyways."

Everybody laughed. Still smiling, he turned around to face another section of Marines. "Now, if you do want your knife to be on your dominant side, tape your scabbard to your calf. Not your thigh, your calf. You're not going to have room on your thigh and the grip of your knife might get caught on your belt pouches. Now, if it's on your calf, _never _reach for it from a standing position. Immediately take a knee and drag it; it's a fast, smooth transition, it's right in your dominant hand, and you can spring back up with it, ready to fight."

Frost demonstrated, crouching down, ripping his knife from the scabbard, and jumping back up. He demonstrated a few slashes, jabs, thrusts, and blocks to further illustrate his point. When he finished, he slid the blade back into its scabbard. "Don't underestimate the importance of the initial draw; not only do you have to be faster, you have to be smarter," he said, tapping the side of his head. "Being smart doesn't mean you're less aggressive; being smart makes you _more _aggressive. Got it?"

"Yes, Gunny!" all the Marines shouted.

"Good! Now get out of my fucking ring and start practicing!"

Joking, laughing, and jostling one another, the Marines filtered through the ropes of the ring. As they passed by Vivian, they all raised their hands in salute and uttered a respectful, 'Captain.' When they all passed, Frost finally noticed her, approached the edge of the ring, and rested his arms on the rope. "Captain Waters, good to see you," he said.

"Training seems to be going well. I thought the Marines would prefer a rest after the raid."

"Gotta stay sharp. They're back in the operational swing, ma'am. The fight's in them; if they can't take their aggression out on the Covenant then they might as well work it out here. What brings you down here?"

"Making my rounds." Vivian smiled wryly. "If you're up for it, I have time for a match."

"Don't want your new skills to go to waste, huh?" Frost asked, amused. After a moment, he nodded his head to the side and put one leg through the ropes. With one of his hands, he raised the other. Eagerly, Vivian clambered up, balanced on the edge, and squeezed through the gap. Going to the opposite corner, she unbuttoned her tunic and carefully hung it on the post. Left in a white tank top, she quickly freed her dirty blonde hair from its regulation bun and redid it, ensnaring all of the locks which managed to free themselves throughout the day.

When she turned around, she found Frost leaning over the ropes and taking the combat knife from one of the Marines who was resting on a nearby bench. After briefly checking it, he slid it back into its scabbard and tossed it to Vivian. Catching it gracefully, she tugged it out and inspected the blade as well. It was a standard issue piece with a serrated steel edge and an olive drab grip.

Putting the scabbard aside, she held the knife by its grip and tested the weight. Performing a number of moves to orientate herself with it, she found Swing and Frost's training coming back to her. The days of CQC drills, ruck marches, and hand to hand practice sessions seemed so long ago. In moments, however, she felt like she was back at the Port. The air brushed against her bare tan skin, the taste of cool mornings and warm days settled on her tongue. In a flash, it passed, and she felt only the neutral air of the _I'm Alone_.

"Any particular style?" Vivian asked.

"Why don't we freeball it and see what kind of fun we can get up to?" Frost asked. Hunching forward, his free hand out flat and his knife poised to strike, he advanced towards her. Vivian closed the gap and slashed. Frost stepped back nimbly but before he could react Vivian was upon him with another strike. Instead of dodging, he ducked. Anticipating his move, the Captain jumped back, avoiding a horizontal slash.

Still keeping low, he lunged forward. Sidestepping, Vivian tossed her knife to her other hand, held it overhand, and brought it down as hard as she could. Frost rolled to the side and tried to get back up. Wasting no time, Vivian rushed him, knocked him onto his back, and straddled him. Before she attempted to bring her knife to bear or land a hit with her fist on him, he sharply shifted his leg and threw her off balance. It was only for a moment but she knew it was all he needed. Reaching up, he grabbed the collar of her tank top and pulled to the side as hard as he could. Unable to get a grip on him or the ropes, Vivian was dragged off and fell onto her back. Looking up, she saw him hop onto his knees and his glinting knife descending on her. Quickly, she rolled over twice, dodging the blow, and pushed herself back up.

Staying low on her feet like a wolf preparing to lunge, Vivian maintained her distance from the Gunnery Sergeant. He stood erect, his arm guarding his chest and the knife pointed at her. Both began to circle one another.

Eventually, he flashed a smile, exposing his missing tooth. "You looked tired, Captain," Frost chided, smirking. Vivian knew he was trying to goade her into attacking, thus wasting more of her strength, and allowing him to maintain the initiative of the battle. She was not going to fall for it and continued to stay across the ring from him while they circled.

Knowing she was catching on, Frost's smile faded and he began to approach quickly. He began to raise his knife as if he was about to attack overhead, but just as he came close he raised his leg. Barely dodging it, Vivian raced around to the side, shoulder checked him, and tried to slash. But he recovered quickly, turned, and stopped her forearm with the flat of his hand. Making a fist of the other, Vivian swung. Frost barely dodged her blow, leaning back as her fist swept by his face. Before he was able to act, Vivian charged into him, trying to use her momentum to barrel him over. At first, he staggered but he managed to plant his feet and stop her in her tracks.

They became a flurry of limbs, each trying to extend their reach, bring their knife to bear, and blocking the other. Nearly entangled around one another against the ropes, Vivian and Frost tried to break from one another by turns. She did not want to give up the advantage; Frost was taller, stronger, and had greater reach. He could keep the distance between them and remain offensive. But her shorter stature and reach played to her strengths now that she was against him.

Eventually, she was able to wrap her arm around his. Tightening it like a coil, she jerked it upwards. She heard a _crick _in his arm and Frost shouted. Instinctively, his hand opened and his knife fell to the ground. Wishing to keep him unarmed, Vivian finally parted from him and kicked his knife out of the ring. Spinning around, she brought her arm over her head and tried to bring it down on him. Instead, Frost caught her wrist with one hand. When she tried to hit him with the other, he grabbed it too. Now in the center of the ring, they grappled for control of Vivian's knife.

Gritting her teeth and grunting with effort, Vivian looked up. Frost was smiling and his gray eyes were alight, as if there were burning embers behind a wall of pale smoke. "Adjust strategy, Captain," he goaded.

Vivian didn't think twice. Swing her leg back she kicked him in the groin. Frost yelled in pain and his grip loosened. As he stumbled back in shock, she tackled him into the ground. Straddling him once more, she tried to bring her knife down on him. Letting out a war cry, Vivian let it fall with all her might. But a sharp blow in her side stunned her and broke her momentum. His hands reached up, grabbed her throat, and dragged her down to the side. Thrown onto her belly, Vivian felt one of his hands transition to the back of her head and she groaned when his knee pressed into her back. Slowly, the knife was pulled from her hand.

The weight was taken from her back and head at the same time. Panting, Vivian rolled over and looked up. Frost was examining the knife. His eyes were a bit wide but he managed to chuckle nervously. "Damn, Captain, I thought you were really going to do me in that time."

"What, me?" Vivian wheezed, grinning. She held her hand up and Frost took it. In one pull, she was back on her feet. "Never."

"That was a good show, Captain. You take to it better than some leathernecks I've served with you. I know a few who would roll over in their graves if I said this, but you're a bit of a natural. With that aggression, you made one hell of a Marine."

The pair collected the scabbards, sheathed the knives, and then sat down side by side on one of the benches bordering the ring. Frost shared some water with her and for a few minutes, they caught their breath in silence. Although she was doing her best to hide it, Vivian was a bit upset that she lost and that he thought he was going to hurt him. She was positive she had him in the end. All she was going to do was bring the blade to his neck as they often did in mock sessions, acting as thought they were delivering the killing blow. It helped the winner follow through on his attack and the loser was able to learn the consequences if he lost.

Looking over at Frost, she saw the fire gone from his eyes. He seemed instantly relaxed; were it not for the sweat dripping down the side of his face, one might have assumed he hadn't even started training yet.

He noticed her staring. Vivian looked forward again.

"Do you still think I'm gunning for you?" she asked, a little too sharply.

"I didn't mean it like that," he defended. "But to be honest, I thought after what happened after the Port you'd still have a grudge against me."

"You were cleared of all charges. I trust Carris and the judgement of the officers involved. Before, I let paranoia and suspicion dictate so much of my decisions. I lost sight of the bigger picture. Thousands of men and women who need leadership. I can't lead if I'm living in the past and trying to settle my scores. I told you before and I meant it: it's over."

For a long time, Frost stared at her. His eyes were ice cold and his gaze bore through her. Vivian remained resolute, her expression stone-faced, mirroring his own. She could tell just by his face he didn't believe her. Vivian could understand but it still bothered her. Inhaling deeply, she broke their gaze and looked ahead once more. "I trust you, Nate. Do you trust me?"

He didn't answer. Vivian looked at him and saw his intense expression was gone. Instead, he was looking down at his boots, his eyes sad and lost, and his lips drawn in a depressive line. It was such a stark change Vivian was surprised. Without thinking, she reached over and touched his shoulder. "Nate?"

"You won't forget. You won't forgive. But you ask for my trust? That's a lot to ask, Captain."

"It takes just as much for me to place my faith in you," Vivian retorted.

"I don't know why you would," he murmured.

"Because I was wrong. I used to think you were a murderer, a psychopath who masqueraded as a Marine just so he could satisfy his bloodlust. I let ghosts and shadows blind me to the Marine...the _man_, who was right in front of me. I won't let that happen again."

Frost abruptly stood up, took his canteen and his towel, and took a few steps away. He stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"You have my trust," was all he said.

* * *

**Words: **6,508

**Pages (Google Docs): **16

**Original Font: **PT Serif

**Original Font Size: **11

**Original Line Spacing: **1.5

**Author's Note: **Probably one of my favorite chapters of _I'm Alone: Exalt_ yet. Good dialogue, a narrated theme, two sets of characters tied to one another, speaking of their unique situations but also the overarching theme that hangs above them, and even some action to spice it up at the end. I don't normally pat myself on the back but hey, I can't help myself. Thanks for reading. Oh, can someone play that clip of that person shouting, "THERE IT IS! THERE IT IS! OH MY GOD!" at the part where Steele and Carris hugged and had a tender, subtly romantic moment? Thanks for that.

**Comment Responses**

**Qrs-jg: **Lol, aptly said. Not by any means going to be a huge character, perhaps a recurring one until later on. Skopje, being the crux of Vivian's and Frost's paths, was always intended to hang that way. A shadow lingering on the minds of so many characters, a place of mystery and terror. Trust me, we'll see more of it. Uwem is actually a new character that I decided to add in; on DeviantArt, I'm uploading edited versions of the original _I'm Alone. _While some chapters are just cleaned up, there's also a lot of fresh changes that cut down on fluff, make the prose more mature, and imbue the story with more accurate military characteristics. One of which was the senior enlisted man on the ship, which was never touched on in the first story. So, here's Uwem, the Command Master Chief Petty Officer for the task unit's flagship and overall commanding officer. Again, not a huge character, but meant to fill in the space for military accuracy. The character you're thinking of, who fulfills a similar narrative role, is Ngouabi.

**Jackejsh: **Hey, glad you found it, hopefully you read the first story beforehand and were able to tolerate how badly written it is. I really appreciate you taking the time to check out my work, and I especially cherish the comments you left on _Marsh Silas: Inquisitor_. The day you left those, I actually woke up to those notifications on my phone so it was a great way to start the day. So thank you!

**MightBeGone: **Why thank you, I appreciate that. It's in these character moments that I get to utilize their intellect and personal memories to reflect on certain ideas and/or events. Because these are reflections, I like them to be a bit more eloquent and mystical, almost fantastical. So it's a lot of fun and it's gratifying to know they work. And hey, here's Steele, he's practically the star of this chapter!


	23. Chapter 23: Lightning

Chapter 23: Lightning

* * *

Vivian sometimes wondered if the crew bestowed any sobriquets upon her she hadn't heard about. Leaders who brought victory to their commands often earned monikers denoting their feats, words, actions, or even habits. Some, like Vice Admiral Preston Cole, didn't need any; he was far too grand for any. None would bestow the honor he deserved. To the men and women of the UNSC, he was a demigod and needed no other name but his own. Upon the unknown officers, those who were just making their splash, who defied the expectations of the more experienced hands, were epithets conferred.

She didn't lust for any specific title. Whether she was in bed in her cabin or standing on the _I'm Alone's _bridge, Vivian felt the weight of her responsibility. Not just as a Naval officer, but as a human being, her actions would have an impact on the war. Still, the idea amused her. If they had any nicknames for her, were they affectionate, glorifying, or unfavorable.

Drifting through the _I'm Alone's _long corridors and tight passageways, she thought one that was fitting would be the 'Sleepwalker,' or more simply, 'the Walker.' Waters the Walker? Waters-Walker, that she would accept eagerly. She knew the crew was well aware of her short sleep cycles and her proclivity to wander throughout the ship when the majority of the crew were off-duty or asleep. Nobody said a word or asked her about it. Vivian could only assume they thought it was strange. If they did, she didn't mind. Crew gossip didn't interfere with their duties and she was happy enough the tension between the Marine and Navy personnel was dying down. Having that after so many stressful months was an immense relief and for having it, they could call her whatever they wanted.

But she still needed to take her late walks. Before, it came from a lack of sleep although now it was a matter of habit. It gave her more time to review her operational plans and the streams of data coursing throughout the _I'm Alone_, as if it was the ship's blood. Sleep deprived her of time to absorb the information and formulate her next strategy.

"_CSO_-class, one. _CAS_-class, two. _CSS_-class, two. _CPV_-class, one. _SDV_-class, three." She swiped her finger across her data pad screen, listing the Covenant ship designations as she pooled over the images Rundstrum took during his long reconnaissance mission. The ships were sitting beside another glassed planet. There were no orbital or surface facilities and they weren't poised in any formation she was familiar with. It reminded her of ships in an anchorage, merely halted and waiting for orders to move out. Pursing her lips, she exited out of the files and opened another one. Before they left the Port, she had Tane, the black-haired, dark-skinned scientist trained in Covenant technology, fiddle with the star map they found underneath the old base. Although it was difficult to crack to the point he needed Decatur's help, and by his account it was not Covenant, he was able to download a copy of the map.

Looking through the files, she correlated the system they would soon be jumping to with the map. It was in the center of a series of other systems within the cluster; if she connected the dots, it would be in the center of a hexagon. The right side bordered the trajectory of Travers's task force's system-hopping campaign. Once they arrived, the Covenant could jump into their system quickly.

Although it lacked the infrastructure, it was the same concept as the Port. A springboard effect, allowing forces to jump into enemy territory, strike quickly, and then return just as fast. As well, they could act as a quick reaction force and jump to anywhere they were needed. If they hadn't moved yet, they were waiting for the main UNSC task force to come abreast of them on the star map so they could launch a strong counterattack.

It was what Vivian would do, at the very least. Reviewing the ammunition and weapon systems of her ships, she was not sure if it was enough to take them in a head on fight. They faced superior, heavy-tonnage ships before and came out on top. She was confident in the ships' upgrades and advanced MAC guns. But the odds seemed too high this time; even the smallest Covenant ships possessed armaments that could slice through the heaviest ships the UNSC had in their arsenal.

Stopping outside one of the medical bays, she ran her hand through her blonde locks and looked up at the ceiling. "Decatur?"

"Ma'am?" came the AI's voice through an intercom.

"Care to run some numbers for me?"

"Oh, splendid ma'am, just marvelous, I'd be more than happy to!"

"I need the probabilities of a standard ship-to-ship engagement between our target and our own fleet."

Vivian drifted to the bulkhead, turned, and leaned back against it. Holding her data pad under her arm, she dug her hands into her pockets and waited. It didn't take more than a few seconds.

"Based on tonnage, armaments, and maneuvering, there's a fifty-nine percent chance of success. If I factor in data on previous engagements, crew experience, and ship leadership, we now have a seventy percent chance of success."

"Projected casualties and damage report?" There was no reply. Vivian looked up. "Decatur?"

"I'm not sure if you would like to know either, ma'am."

Vivian gave a small grunt.

"That bad?" Vivian hefted herself off the bulkhead and paced back and forth across the deck for a few moments. "We need our personnel and our ships more than they need theirs. Our diversionary raids won't count for anything if we don't have the ships. Losing even one sets at a tactical disadvantage." Vivian stopped in the center of the hall, cupped her chin, and tapped her foot. Then, she looked at her data pad, opened a simulator, and began organizing a series of yellow and red dots on a hypothetical plane. She plugged in directions for a line formation and then started the simulation. Hitting a key to speed up the process, she watched as the red dots were destroyed one by one but two yellow dots blinked away as well. Statistics came up showing unacceptable casualties in manpower and ships.

She did it over again, changed the formation to a V, and added in factors for maneuvers. Again, the simulation played out; the red and yellow dots seemed to dance around one another. In the end, all the red dots were gone but one of the yellow dots disappeared as well, and the after-action statistics were hardly promising.

"Ma'am? Can I be of any assistance?" Decatur's voice chimed through the intercom.

"I'm just thinking," Vivian murmured. She started to pace again but stopped only after a minute. "Eliminating the threat posed to the main task force is the priority. But elimination of a threat doesn't necessarily mean we have to _destroy _the threat. If we can draw their attention elsewhere, have them chase us, they won't be able to reinforce their positions in the target systems."

"Reviewing data from previous engagements, I recall your strategy to enable the fledgling Marine Raiders to seize the Port was a sharp, quick raid that destroyed the Covenant defense fleet's smaller ships then drew the heavier-tonnage _ORS_-class ship into another system to engage them on your terms. It hinged on the Covenant taking the bait, but considering their superior armaments and slipspace technology, it's nearly a guarantee. Of course, we had extra support on that occasion."

"This time we won't need support. The systems and star clusters used to be colonies but they've all been glassed. We have a lot of dead space to choose from without risking any colonies and we can lead them on a chase as long as we want. We can also lay mines, fight brief maneuver actions, and then jump out of the system to another, whittling their ships down as we go. Through attrition, we'll be able to destroy, disable, or damage the ships so severely they'll need to call at their nearest shipyard."

As the words passed her lips, Vivian's emerald eyes began to glimmer. A clever smile tugged at her lips. Lifting her data pad, she swiped through the different files Rundstrum sent her from his reconnaissance missions. Her finger ran up and down the lists of files, depicting similar defensive flotillas, resupply orbital stations, planetside facilities, and marshaling yards. One image displaying an extensive shipyard over a glassed planet came across her data pad. Quickly, she correlated its location with the star map. Using a plotting tool, she linked a path between systems as if she was connecting dots. "Decatur, look at this," she said and transferred the file to the AI's shipboard database. "If we use this path, bleeding the Covenant ships as we go, they'll have to divert to this shipyard for repairs. It has a light garrison in terms of ships; five _CAR_-class frigates and the latest recon images show they're pretty dispersed. With their heaviest ships in anchorage, under repair, we can hit them and wipe out the whole lot."

Decatur didn't speak for a few moments. As she looked up at the ceiling, as if she would find his face there, Vivian's smile faded. She began to worry that he disapproved of the plan or was running the numbers and found them disagreeable. Some UNSC Navy officers might have dismissed the opinions of even a Smart AI, but the most intelligent officers never failed to incorporate the opinions, feedback, and computing power of their shipboard artificial intelligence. If he didn't approve it, she had no qualms about changing strategy.

"Ma'am, factoring in potential maneuvers, armaments, ship classes, the voyage path, data on previous engagements, and leadership and crew experience, an operation of this nature has an eighty-nine percent chance of success."

Vivian's smile widened. "Shall I draft a communique between the ships' commanding officers?"

"Right away Decatur, right away. I'll make my way to the bridge and review it there."

"Splendid, madam!"

Vivian went through the door through the medical bay. She knew there was an elevator that could take her up to the bridge on the opposite side. So excited with her plan, she found herself walking briskly. At this point, sleep was not even a possibility. Staying up for the remainder of her allotted off-duty time to plot the finer details of the plan was far more agreeable than hitting the sack.

Strutting through the medical bay, she breathed in deeply as if she was strolling through a field of flowers. She felt very content; already, they achieved one maximal victory, the crew and the Marine complement were working together, and they had a solid plan for the next attack. Bringing the ships' crews continued success would occupy her personnel and keep them focused. Crews who experienced regular victories rarely felt disheartened and the tension wasn't the first on everyone's mind.

She hoped to bump into Jasmine along the way, if just to chat with her briefly. Some friends liked to gossip about their coworkers, discuss the latest trends in fashion magazines, and chat about the lifestyles of their favorite actors. Vivian and Jasmine enjoyed talking about naval warfare and the safest way to extract a Type-51 8.7x60mm caseless radioactive slug from the abdomen without endangering the abdominal aorta.

As she glanced between the medical bays, she found the cots empty. Bay staff composed of doctors, nurses, and technicians were busy at their stations. Only one was occupied by a blonde haired Marine wearing a trim mustache. Vivian turned her gaze forward, knowing the majority of the wounded from the previous engagement were in medical bays further from the Hangars. It was part of Jasmine's strategy to maximize the efficiency of medical treatment of wounded from subsequent raids. Placing stable but long-term casualties in the medical bays further away from the Hangars provides accessible space to fresher, more critical cases. Essentially, the time between transporting the wounded from the Hangars to the infirmary was cut. Vivian understood the concept but it was always difficult to reconcile Jasmine's empathetic, compassionate, kind demeanor with her pragmatic, business-like acumen regarding casualties.

Vivian stopped dead in her tracks and blinked.

"Was the Corporal Steele?" she asked aloud. She went back to the window and peered through. The scout sniper was lounging on his cot amid a series of tubes and stands holding monitoring devices and IV bags. His thick blonde hair was spilling over to the left side of his head and there was stubble growing on his cheeks, causing his neat mustache to be more pronounced. He looked incredibly bored as he disinterestedly flipped through the pages of a hard-copy book, no doubt provided to him by one of his squad mates. When he set it down on the bed, he ran his other hand over his face and looked up. The moment his blue eyes met with Vivian's, her brow furrowed and he blinked back in surprise.

She turned around and stormed towards the entrance. The door slid open and the medical staff stood up. Ignoring their salutes, she marched over to his cot and found the sniper had pulled his blanket over his head. "Corporal Steele," she growled menacingly.

"No Corporal Steele here, I'm...uh...Corporal Beefington. I'm American," the sniper said in a mocking accent. Vivian snatched the blanket from his hand and yanked it off him. The Marine looked up at her sheepishly and then smiled. "Hello, Captain."

"What are you doing here?" she seethed. "You're supposed to be at the Port recovering. If Jasmine had you transferred here prior to departure, she would have notified me."

Steele sighed heavily and shook his head.

"I don't want to get the Doc in trouble. I sneaked my way on board, Captain."

"Just how did you manage that?"

"I hid in a supply crate."

Vivian stood up straight, blinked, then groaned. She ran her hand down her face, closed her eyes, and then pinched the bridge of her nose.

"You mean to tell me you managed to stowaway on a UNSC capital warship, bypassing numerous security screens, in a box?" She lowered her hand and opened her eyes. "I should be surprised but considering your CSV and your track record aboard my ship, I'm not. Who helped you?"

"No one."

"Don't lie to me."

"I ain't!" Steele insisted. "I made my way out of the hospital, got myself inside a crate when no one was looking, and they brought me..." Steele's voice faltered as Vivian's angry gaze continued to darken. "...it was Carris."

"Unsurprising." Vivian sighed, placed her hands on her hips, and shook her head. "I suppose there's not much we can do about it now. You're already here and there's no way I'm diverting any assets to bring you back to the Port. I will have to report this to Colonel Hayes; I'm sure whatever punishment he'll devise will be fitting for you."

Steele let his head fall back against the pillow and he groaned loudly.

"Can you blame me? Captain, if you were wearing my boots you'd do the exact same thing I did. You can just stay behind while your mates go into the suck."

"Regardless, you're expected to follow orders. Don't defy Jasmine's again or you'll have to deal with me. If _she's _unhappy, _I'm _unhappy. Understand?"

"Yes, Captain," Steele replied quietly and averted his eyes. Vivian loomed over him.

"Say it like a Marine."

Steele looked back and glared up at her with icy blue eyes.

"Yes, _Captain_."

Vivian shook her head, turned on her heel, and marched out of the medical bay. She wasn't going to let the rebellious Marine dampen her mood. Even though he had defied orders, she was not as displeased as she let on. There were more important matters worthy of her attention and the Covenant merited her anger more than a mere Marine sniper did. A Marine could do far worse than stowing away so he could find with his comrades and it was better than someone deserting.

But she was surprised Jasmine hadn't reported it. Considering how quickly they commenced combat operations, she probably just hadn't found the time to tell her. She could understand that and it didn't merit any kind of reprimand. Vivian trusted Jasmine and granting her autonomy took a lot of Vivian's plate. Still, she was surprised not to see her working and wondered if she misread her schedule.

* * *

Jasmine stepped out of the bathroom in her quarters. She was half-dressed, wearing only an olive drab tank top and a standard-issue pair of undergarments. The neutral air felt cool against her deep, tan skin. Glancing at her wrist watch, she saw that her shift was beginning in twenty minutes. Her uniform was draped over the back of her desk chair. Just as she went over to change, she heard Frost roll over in bed.

Turning around, she smiled softly. The Gunnery Sergeant was sleeping soundly but had nearly come out of the sheets. They were bundled around his legs and left his naked frame exposed. Stepping closer, she saw goosebumps on his arms. He had a light farmer's tan; his forearms were a faded tan while his upper arms were pale. It came from years of serving in a variety of surface environments with his sleeves rolled up past the elbow. Months spent in Cryo or in a ship tended to soften the tan over time, but Jasmine still found it very attractive.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she ran the back of her fingers up and down his right arm. His light brown hair was messy and came down over his face slightly. Jasmine promptly reached over and swept the lockes from his forehead, then cupped his bearded cheek. Slowly, she ran her thumb back and forth across the part of the long, horizontal scar that ran across his face.

When she did that, Frost opened his eyes sleepily. He smiled handsomely and Jasmine couldn't resist leaning down to plant a small kiss on his lips.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," she whispered. Frost stretched a little before he reached up and touched her cheek.

"You sure you have to go? Can't you call in sick?"

Jasmine giggled.

"The chief doctor doesn't get to call in sick," she said, leaning down and rubbing the tip of her nose against Frost's. She felt his arms snake around her middle and then pull her on top of her. Jasmine laughed as he kissed her cheek and held her very tightly. "You're so warm," she murmured into his neck.

He moved over slightly, allowing Jasmine to lay down on the bed beside him. They pressed into one another, their bodies conforming to the others' shape, as if they were two puzzle pieces being slid together. Jasmine slid her hand behind his head and brought it against her breasts. His hot breath washed over her skin and she couldn't help but breathe in a little bit. His touch, his breath, his body against hers was electrifying; she felt light in her stomach and her heart rate was speeding up ever so slightly.

"Here with you, it all seems normal," Frost suddenly said into her chest. He lifted his head up a little and Jasmine craned her neck to get a look at him. His gray eyes were open and misty, like fog as it fell from the sky and rolled across the ground. "No war. No killing. I don't even feel like a Marine. I don't want to be a Marine when I'm with you. When I listen to you talk, you take me somewhere else."

Frost hefted himself up onto his elbows. His face was barely an inch away from Jasmine's. He looked at her for a moment before he ran his hand along her cheek and then tangled his fingers into her black locks. "I feel normal when we're together," he said, then chuckled and shrugged. "Or at least, what most people think _normal _is. I don't really have a clue about what that's like."

Jasmine, lying on her side, reached up and cupped his cheek. She ran her thumb back and forth across his lips.

"Normal is just a concept and everybody has a different point of view regarding it. Your normal has been the Marine Corps, combat, killing, getting wounded, and wondering when it'll all be over. It doesn't always have to be like that."

Frost smiled.

"Then what's the brilliant, the passionate, the beautiful Lieutenant Commander Jasmine Ebrahimi's version of normal?" Jasmine blushed and giggled in embarrassment. She felt silly and pressed her face into his chest so he wouldn't see how red her cheeks were getting. Frost couldn't resist either and he rested his face in her hair, laughing. When they finally stopped and looked back up at one another, Jasmine thought for a moment.

"Maybe it's just a little place, somewhere in the Colonies or maybe even Earth, where I can live out the rest of my life in peace. A place where I'm not Lieutenant Commander Ebrahimi but just Doctor Jasmine. Just a small, quiet place, with someone I love," she whispered, touching his cheek. Then she grinned mischievously. "Know where I can find it?"

"Might have to do a little recon, but I think there's a few spots on Earth that could fit the bill." Frost sighed a little sadly, but his smile quickly returned. "My normal? I'm not too sure, to be honest. All I know is you're a part of it, that's for sure. With you, I wouldn't have to be Gunnery Sergeant Frost, and I wouldn't have to think about all the horrible things I've done."

Jasmine had closed her eyes as she listened to him talk. When she opened them, she saw his gray gaze was very troubled. His expression was distant, faraway, as if what made him who he was left. The absence made him look cold, statuesque, like one of the warriors of old captured in a faded marble bust.

Suddenly, his eyes began to glimmer. Frost raised the back of his hand and wiped both before sniffing a little. Jasmine sat up a little bit, concerned.

"Nate? Talk to me, Nate."

Frost shook his head a little bit.

"Just...processing a few things."

"Skopje was a long time ago. I understand how it can still weigh heavily on your mind. Past experiences like that can come back; sustain them, don't indulge them, process, breathe. You're not on Skopje, you're here with me on the _I'm Alone. _Please, take some solace knowing you've made so much progress since that time."

Frost shook his head slowly.

"It's not about that," he murmured. Jasmine was confused and she sat up a little bit. She guided his face so that he was looking at her.

"If it's not that, then what is it? Try and tell me. It's okay if you can't."

Frost looked at her for a few moments. He suddenly appeared nervous, his expression practically tragic. His lips moved a little bit and he seemed to gulp as if he suddenly developed a stammer. Eventually, he cleared his throat and composed himself.

"It all just comes back to me sometimes."

"So it was Skopje?" Jasmine asked slowly.

"It'll always be Skopje," he replied quietly. He took a deep breath and smiled. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to go and spoil the moment."

Jasmine smiled kindly and patted him on the cheek.

"You didn't spoil anything." Frost feigned a sad sound.

"Oh, can't I make it up to you?"

"Nate, there's nothing...hey..." Jasmine giggled as he leaned forward and began to gently kiss the side of her neck. He worked his way up and down, applying more pressure on the softer, more sensitive parts of her skin at the base of her neck.

"I'd love to make it up to you," he teased, speaking right into her neck. Jasmine closed her eyes and moved her hand behind his head, digging her fingers into his loose brown hair. She raised her other arm and glanced at her wrist watch.

"Do you really want me to tend to my patients with wet underwear?"

"You could always change," Frost teased. "You sure you don't want me to make it up to you?"

She raised her other arm and glanced at her wrist watch.

"Can you make it up to me in eleven minutes?" she asked, her breathing growing ragged.

"I can give it my best shot," Frost said. Jasmine felt his fingers slide down her leg, pinch the middle of her underwear, and tug it over to the side. They began to run back and forth; Jasmine buried her face into his shoulder, breathing heavily, feeling gentle but otherwise strong jolts shoot up into her car and down into her legs. After a few moments, Jasmine rolled over and Frost hugged her from behind. She felt him part her legs just a little bit and gasped as he began to rock against her. She pushed back, moving to his rhythm. Reaching back, she took his hand and slid it under her tank top. For a few moments, she held his hand there, squeezing her breast. Then, she slid it down her flat stomach and between her legs.

"Now hear this! Now hear this!" came Vivian's voice over the intercom, loud and clear. Both Jasmine and Frost jumped in the bed. The latter leaned back, disappointed. Jasmine frowned and covered her ears. One day, she promised herself she would find the ships' architect who decided to install the intercom right over the cot in her quarters and give him a piece of her mind. "The task force is mobilizing for a slipspace jump within the hour. All personnel, report to your commanding officers and station commanders to be updated on the next phase of combat operations. This _will _be a combat jump. After your briefings, personnel selected for skeleton crew detail report to your stations, all other personnel, report to Cryo. That is all."

The intercom cut and the pair were left lying side by side in the bed, red in the face, and their minds far from their duties. Glancing at one another, they both frowned heavily.

"Thanks Vivian," Jasmine said at the ceiling. "Really _appreciate it_, Vivian. Can always count on you to ruin a good time, _Vivian._"

"Ah, she's just doing her job," Frost said, sitting up and fixing his hair. "We all got jobs to do; making war is what we're paid to do, isn't it?"

"Maybe you and her; my job is to patch you idiots up so you can make more." Jasmine sat up too, fixed her own hair, and then went over to her dresser. She opened one of the metallic drawers, produced a clean pair of underwear, slid her current pair off, and put the new ones on. As she began to don her uniform, she turned and faced Frost. "How are you two getting on these days?"

"Well enough. We've sparred a few times and it's been good fun. She's got a real knack for knife-fighting; took to it very naturally. I'm pretty impressed."

Jasmine pulled on her olive drab sweater, tucked it into her black trousers, and buckled her belt. She looked over at Frost, uneasily.

"Maybe it's just me but I find the idea of my boyfriend and my best friend dueling with knives to be rather disconcerting."

"Because of our history?" Frost asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and apparently in no rush to get dressed. Jasmine furrowed her brow, pursed her lips, and looked at him blankly.

"No, because of the _knives_. The last thing I need is one or both of you limping into my infirmary going, 'oh hey Jas, we were just sparring and my radial artery got sliced open and now there's blood all over the deck. Can you fix my boo-boo?' Maybe in the future you could try sparring with the scabbards on."

"I'll mention it to her. But she's got the fight in her; she'd make one hell of a Marine."

"Trust me when I say the last thing she'd ever want to be is a Marine."

Jasmine threw on her white lab coat, straightened it, and then grabbed her data pad. She went over to Frost, bent down, and kissed him on the cheek. "I have to go now. Back to the grindstone. I'm not sure if we'll be able to see each other right away since it's a combat jump, but we'll work that out, okay?"

Frost nodded, stood up, and the pair embraced. Jasmine rested the side of her face against his chest and sighed as she smiled. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he said sweetly.

* * *

Another slipspace jump, another long cryosleep, another rude awakening, and Vivian found herself on the bridge of the _I'm Alone. _Despite taking the past forty-five minutes to wake up from cryo, it only felt like it had been a few minutes since she first undressed and entered the pod. To know weeks passed since she closed her eyes and the slipspace jump was executed was something Vivian still had trouble reconciling even after so many years of service.

Golden-blue light filled the bridge and then briefly faded, plunging it into darkness. White, blue, and orange tactical screens glowed and illuminated the face of her bridge staff. Decatur, standing atop the AI pedestal with his hands folded behind his back, looked as if he was suspended in midair. When the light returned, he faded somewhat.

"Sosa?" Vivian said out loud.

"One minute until slipspace exit, Captain."

Vivian took a deep breath and looked over at Decatur. The AI looked at her and offered a confident smile. With a nod, he drew his saber and his flintlock pistol. He leaned forward slightly as if he was about to burst across a 19th Century boarding plank to seize the prize. Vivian leaned forward as well, her hands clutching the ends of her command station's armrests.

"Sosa, the moment we exit slipspace, proceed to the rally point at half-speed," Vivian ordered. "Koroma, I want a group comm net established and piped through the bridge's intercom. I need to know what's going on across all commands. Tsang, keep your eyes glued to your screen and keep running scans, if there are anymore ships in the system, sound off. Bassot, pump all available power into the MAC's, get four Archer pods ready, and then transfer manual control to my station."

"Yes, ma'am!" all the bridge officers cried out.

"Third seconds," Sosa added.

Vivian leaned forward and activated the ship's intercom.

"Now hear this, now hear this: all hands, man your battle stations!"

Officers exchanged glances and nods with one another. Some smiled. A few closed their eyes, murmured a prayer, and made the sign of the cross across their chest. Vivian breathed in, sharply this time, and exhaled slowly. She could feel her heart pounding, her blood boiling, and her stomach fluttering with excitement and fear. The paradox of her emotions, the furor of entering combat once again, the terror at losing a ship and their crews, the wonder of what it would be like for plasma to slice through the bridge and take off a limb, and the sheer joy of commanding an array of the UNSC's most powerful weapons against an unsuspecting foe, blended together and tore one another apart all at once in her chest. Vivian relished it, delighted in these few calm moments before battle, and was glad she wasn't anywhere else in the Colonies except right here.

Her station pinged. Sosa had sent a countdown to her primary screen. It counted down from ten; suddenly it seemed so slow. When she glanced at her wrist watch, an antique rather than a digital one, she watched the second hand approach the top. As her focus fell on it, it seemed as though she could hear the inner workings of the watch, the small gears grinding against each other and a faint _click _as the hand progressed towards the Roman numeral XII.

The golden-blue light disappeared. Before her was blackened space, a cold blue sun was in the center, adjacent to it was an ash gray orb in the center, and a meandering, disorganized anchorage of ships beside it. Immediately, Vivian stood up.

"Half speed, proceed to nav marker, go!" she ordered.

One by one, the other ships appeared on the ship's tactical display and the commanding officers sounded off.

"Ma'am, you're patched into the net," Koroma reported.

"Echelon formation, right. _I'm Alone_, leading, highest tonnage to lowest tonnage ships following. Charge MAC's, enable Archer missile pods. All ships, half-speed!"

Across the no man's land between the two battle groups she saw the purple-white flare of the Covenant ships' engines. Slowly, they began to turn towards the UNSC ships. Their fluid purple shapes seemed so fragile and so small from such a distance. It seemed as though she could reach through the viewing glass, pluck them one by one from orbit, and snap them over her knee.

With her teeth clenched, Vivian turned and faced the starboard side tactical screen. All ships were in formation, stacked diagonally away from the ship. Beside each one, she watched the bars representing their MAC gun charges steadily filling up and the numeric percentage to the right of each ascending to one hundred percent. She looked back at the Covenant flotilla and saw they were entering a line formation. To see the ships side by side, they finally looked formidable. To go through them would be like flies smashing into a brick wall.

Vivian's fingers raced across her terminal keyboard. "Dispatching target vectors and firing sequence. All ships, prepare to fire on my mark." She looked back at the tactical display. One after the other, the bars began to fill up. The moment the final one reached one hundred percent, she looked forward. All the Covenant ships were looming much larger in the bridge glass. "Fire, first salvo!"

The _I'm Alone _shuddered. Golden streaks flung towards the Covenant ships. The shields of the three _SDV_-class ships were hit and orange fire billowed over the shields. Hit so many times, the shields already began to flicker and die.

"Ma'am, all ships in range for Archer missile pods!" Bassot cried.

"All ships, two Archer missile pods per ship, fire at will!"

Vivian hit the key and she watched a horde of missile swarm towards the enemy. Purple point defense lasers arced and cut swathes across black space. Hundreds of the missiles dissipated into brief orange flashes and puffs of metallic dust. Many got through and broke upon the shields. While the heavier ships' shields held, it was too much for the _SDV_-class corvettes. Their shields finally died away. "Second slavo, fire!" Vivian ordered.

More golden streaks cut flew towards the Covenant ships. One MAC smashed into the nose of one enemy corvette and caused a massive explosion that broke it off from the remainder of the ship. As the bow began to drift away, the rest of the ship was rocked by secondary explosions. Another's spine was broken by the impact and in the same instant its slipspace drive detonated. A massive white-purple explosion engulfed the ship and sent a white shockwave out. The third _SDV_ was on fire and began to veer off course, clearly out of control. Then _River Styx's _XEV9-Matos Nonlinear Pulse Cannons came to life and a series of lasers burned across the burning corvette's hull. Molten cracks appeared in the hull and entire sections of the hull began to break off.

Three ships were destroyed, but the heavier tonnage ships were already barreling towards them. Vivian smiled; she was hoping they would. "_Best of the Best_, prepare one Shiva-class nuke and fire on my command. Bassot, transfer controls of one of our own to my station."

"Done, ma'am."

"_I'm Alone, Best of the Best _here. One Shiva-class nuke, prepared to fire on your command, over."

"Roger, _Best of the Best_. Hold."

"Madam, it appears the Covenant flotilla is preparing to fire a salvo."

"All ships, prepare to execute emergency thruster maneuver; top thruster."

"Enemy ships firing!" Bassot hollered.

Vivian saw the weapons flare across the surviving ships. A wall of purple, blue, and pink plasma came rushing towards the UNSC ships. It was like watching a wave breaking on the shore, the white water growing bigger, louder, and faster as it stormed up the beach. Vivian, still grinning so wide she was exposing her clenched teeth, could practically feel the plasma's crackle. The plasma was closing in, becoming so larger through the screens that it blotted out the ships behind them.

"_Best of the Best_, fire!" she commanded, then hit the firing key on her terminal. "All ships, execute emergency thrusters!"

The _I'm Alone _shuddered violently as it flung below the wave of plasma. "Decatur, give me top and stern cameras!" Two screens at her station changed over a direct feed. The plasma passed over the top of the _I'm Alone _and continued barreling into the space behind them.

"All ships report successful evasion," Tsang reported.

"Shiva-class nuclear device detonations in three, two, one..." Bassot counted down. Two massive explosions appeared amid the line of ships. When the blinding white light, all the ships' shields save for the _CSO_-class ship was flickering. Vivian pointed forward. "All ships, full speed ahead, proceed to rally point, sending nav marker!"

The _I'm Alone _sprang forward as the Covenant ships began to execute a descending turn to fire down upon the ships. By the time their weapons were recharged and ready to fire, the echelon of UNSC ships was underneath them. "All ships, fire Archer missile pods! Avoid the _CSO_-class ship." Vivian hit the key for the remaining two pods. With less distance between the two formations of ships, the Covenant point defense lasers couldn't detonate as many of the missiles. Orange explosions billowed all over the ships and their shields flared blue, flickered, and died away. Some of the missiles detonated on the enemy ships' hulls. _Batavia's _Mark 15 Breakwater coilguns trained their sights on the ships above them and hammered away. Larger explosions rocked the hull of the _CPV_-class destroyer.

Vivian nodded as she surveyed the screens and the data flooding across them. The echelon passed the formation of Covenant warships. The enemy starships were already turning, executing spectacular, high-speed turns despite flying in a tight line formation. Like water, the ships flowed past one another; at times they were so close, Vivian hoped they would collide. "All ships, change course, seventy-five degrees ascension. _River Styx_, _I'm Alone _hailing."

"Aye, Captain, go ahead!" came Rundstrum's relaxed voice.

"The moment we're back on the Covenant's plane, leave a trail of M441's, over."

"Aye, Captain...deploying!"

"Ma'am, we're at the rally point," Sosa reported. "Coordinates set for slipspace jump."

"Tsang?"

"Green across the board, Captain. All ships prepared to jump."

"All ships, all ships, execute slipspace jump!"

A massive blue portal split the darkness of space in front of the _I'm Alone. _The massive ship plunged into it and Vivian found herself back in the golden-blue light of slipspace. She sat back down and looked at Decatur. The AI rested the back of his saber upon his shoulder and held his pistol in the air triumphantly.

* * *

**Words: **6,592

**Pages (Google Docs): **18

**Original Font: **PT Serif

**Original Font Size: **11

**Original Line Spacing: **1.5

**Authors Note: **Apologies for the delay, I was admittedly a little unmotivated to write over the weekend and the past couple of days, and I was a tad distracted with the release of _Halo 3: ODST _for the _Master Chief Collection _on Steam. Been having a lot of fun with that and the new challenges.

I doubt many of you follow me on DeviantArt (if you don't, that's cool, but if you'd like to see more of my original work, you can mosey on over to my profile, RadiationSoap, I'd appreciate that) or if you read my _Warhammer: 40,000 _fanfic, _Marsh Silas: Inquisitor_, but I've just entered the fifth and final part of the story. In seven more chapters, the story will be complete. For the time being, I'm going to be devoting all my writing time and effort into completing the last seven chapters. I'd like to wrap the story up and move onto its sequel. This may take a couple of weeks and I apologize to those who are here solely for _I'm Alone: Exalt_. But I promise to make it as expedient a process as possible and that once I start working on _Marsh Silas's_ sequel, work will begin on this again immediately.

**Comment Responses: **

**TheCarlosInferno: **I think it was you but hey, these two need someone to knock their heads together and get them to realize what's right in front of them.

**Jackejsh: **Hey, no problem, I really appreciate you leaving reviews, it really helps me out. You probably noticed that while I respond to comments on this story, I don't respond to them in the author's note section on _Marsh Silas: Inquisitor. _That's because of my experiences writing many comment responses on my original _I'm Alone _story ended up tacking probably another 100,000 words, and I don't like to pad my story's word count. So while here it's a matter of tradition, I don't make it a policy on my other stories. But, if you would like to see responses to your reviews on _Marsh Silas_, I have a forum called Vox-Taps where I have a thread dedicated to responding to comments on those stories. While I have updated it for a while, I'll take care of it in the next few days so if you're interested, head over there sometime and you'll see my response.

**MightBeGone: **I knew folks would like it but I think the further their relationship progresses the more enjoyable it will become for readers and Starris fans. I hesitate to say much regarding Frost, not because of spoilers but I want to keep my thoughts as close to my chest as possible, because as you so accurately pointed out, the newfound trust is based on a lie and we can see this peace between them, and by extension, the crew, is far more brittle than Vivian thinks it is.

**Qrs-jg: **Thanks a bunch. I think this chapter was a bit more balanced, mixing it up with Vivian's thought processes, a slightly light encounter with Steele, a romantic but subtly dark moment between Jasmine and Frost, and some naval action to round it off. I'm quite please with this chapter to be honest. And sure, I'd love to!

**Battle Group Corsair Composition**

_Valiant_-class super heavy cruiser: UNSC _I'm Alone_

-Vivian Waters, CAPT, commanding officer

-Solak, CMDR, executive officer

-Uwem, CMDCM, senior non-commissioned officer

-Dennis Ngouabi, CMDR, CAG commanding officer

-Jasmine Ebrahimi, LT CMDR, chief of medical personnel

-Burgess, LT CMDR, chief engineering officer

-Holst, MAJ, 25th ODST Battalion, commanding officer

-Nina De Vos, CAPT, 25th ODST Battalion, complement executive officer

-Avram Hayes, COL, 89th Marine Expeditionary Unit Commanding Officer

-Royce, MAJ, Marine Raider Detachment Alpha Commanding Officer

-Angus Swing, MGySGT, Marine Raider Detachment Alpha senior enlisted advisor

-Conroy, 2NDLT, Marine Raider Detachment Alpha, Second Platoon commanding officer

-Nathaniel J. Frost, GySGT, Marine Raider Detachment Alpha, Second Platoon, senior enlisted man

-Louis-Henry Steele, CPL, Marine Raider Detachment Alpha, Second Platoon scout sniper

-Carris-137, PO3, Spartan-II super soldier, Marine Raider Detachment Alpha, Second Platoon

_Epoch_-class heavy carrier: UNSC _Batavia_

-Kelly, CAPT, commanding officer

_Halberd-_class destroyer: UNSC _Best of the Best_

-Slater, CAPT, commanding officer

_Paris_-class heavy frigate: UNSC _Determined Guardian _

Alastair, CMDR, commanding officer

Andrada, LT, executive officer

_Paris_-class heavy frigate: UNSC _Lion's Den_

-Kolchak, CMDR, commanding officer

-Kato, LT, executive officer

_Sahara_-class heavy prowler: UNSC _River Styx_

-Rikard Rundstrum, CAPT, commanding officer (ONI Section One)


	24. Chapter 24: Fields of Fire

Chapter 24: Fields of Fire

* * *

"Fire Archer missile pods five through eight!" Vivian belted, standing upright at her station. "Give me the charge of those MAC guns!"

"Ninety percent!" Lieutenant Bassot shouted, his fingers racing across his terminal.

"Ma'am, damage control is reporting fires on Zero Deck in the barracks," Solak reported calmly, monitoring his own screens. "They're already on it but they're requesting nonessential personnel in the barracks get to the hangars."

"Approved," Vivian ordered. "Koroma, patch me in to _Batavia_."

"Aye, ma'am. Connection secure, go ahead."

"_I'm Alone,_ _Batavia_," Captain Kelly said, his voice shaking. "We took a bad hit to the bridge here. Half my staff is wounded and one of my MAC guns is in-op. Damage control is on it but I think we're going to do more harm than good if we stay in this fight. Requesting permission to pull back to the far edge of the system for repairs."

Vivian ran her hand over her face and exhaled heavily.

"Permission granted, get out of here, _Batavia._"

"Roger, _I'm Alone_, we'll try to get back in as soon as we can. Out."

"Koroma, patch me in to _Determined Guardian_, now."

"You're linked, Captain."

"_Determined Guardian_, _I'm Alone_. I told you to get out of the kill zone!"

"_I'm Alone_, _Determined Guardian_. We're getting swarmed by enemy fighters and my engines are damaged," Commander Alastair replied in a stoic voice. "We're limping at half-speed to get out of the _CSO_-class ship's range but it's steaming from the orbital shipyard."

"_Determined Guardian_, _I'm Alone_. Hold your course. I'm coming in." Vivian sat down. "Lieutenant Sosa, I'm plotting a course to take us against the _CSO_-class ship. When you receive the coordinates, take us in at full-speed ahead."

"Aye, Captain."

Vivian looked back up. Sirens were wailing and red lights were flashing on many of the terminals. Ahead of her was a massive debris field with many hulks already burning. A large Covenant, _CAS_-class assault carrier was still breaking up, its hull shattering into millions upon millions of blackened hulk. On the right side of the debris field, UNSC _Best of the Best _stormed through the wreckage and delivered a heavy MAC blast against a burning _CSS_-battlecruiser. The shot ripped the bow off from the rest of the ship. Both sections began drifting and secondary explosions blossomed all over the hull. At full speed, the _Halberd_-class destroyer then rammed the Covenant shipyards defensive _CAR_-class frigate amidships. The vessel heeled to one side, as if it was capsizing. When the destroyer cleared it, a swarm of Archer missiles pummeled the ship. Gouts of fire sprouted over the hull followed by large secondary explosions.

Covenant Seraph fighters flew by, pursued by Longsword interceptors. Yellow cannon shells tore through the darkness of space and mingled with purple-white plasma pulses. Fire from the _I'm Alone's _point-defenseweapons systems arced throughout the debris field. To starboard, the _Batavia_ loomed out of the debris. The ship was badly damaged; there were large, blackened plasma burns across the titanium battleplate and there were several sizable holes in the surface hull. Longswords formations flooded from its hangars and began harassing another Covenant _CAR_-class frigate. Detonations bloomed all along the hull. From a hiding spot among the more dense locations in the debris fields, UNSC _Lion's Den _appeared and delivered a fatal MAC blast to the enemy ship. Pieces of the hull began to blow away and soon the ship began to deteriorate.

As the _I'm Alone _broke through the debris field, Vivian saw _Determined Guardian _dead ahead. The two ships passed each other port to port. The _Paris_-class frigate was heavily damaged as well and Vivian was surprised the ship had not exploded yet. As Alastair said, there were Covenant Seraph fighters and hordes of orbital Banshees around it. Blue and purple plasma bombarded the hull. The distance closed between the two ships, point-defense blocks turned their guns, and soon hundreds of starfighters began to explode. Most did not burn up; instead they were broken apart by the masses of cannon shells striking them; it was more like a series of puffs as metallic clouds of dust spread out in all directions.

Ahead, Vivian saw the massive orbital shipyard. The sprawling anchorages were empty save for a few of the damaged _CAR_-class frigates which managed to return to port. White and yellow lights ran around the cylindrical center space station which the anchorages and repair facilities all branched out from. Coming away from it was the massive _CSO_-class supercarrier. Gaping, black holes in the ship's hull indicated previous, unrepaired damage from MAC blasts. Smaller holes, which looked like smears on its hull, were left by Archer missile pods. The closer the _I'm Alone_ got to it, the larger it beame.

Vivian gritted her teeth and her hands curled into fists. Months of slipspace jumps had brought them to their destination with nearly the desired results. Over the brief lapses between slipspace travel and cryosleep, the battlegroup dueled with the pursuing Covenant ships, keeping their distance, whittling down their shields, and causing more damage than they received. The operation was running smoothly until the remaining Covenant ships, the supercarrier, one assault carrier, and one battlecruiser, finally threw in the towel and jumped out of the pursuit. After a brief reconnaissance mission, _River Styx _confirmed Vivian's theory: they returned for repairs to the local shipyard. An all out assault was planned and the battlegroup jumped with high spirits.

Instead of finding the damaged ships bearing the brunt of the battle, Vivian's battlegroup found themselves swarmed by the _CAR_-class frigates. While their heavy tonnage ships could win most engagements with the Covenant frigate, the sheer number in close proximity negated their MAC guns. UNSC and Covenant ships danced around each other, narrowly avoiding collisions with one another in the fray. Each time one of her ships broke away to line up a shot, it was forced to use emergency thrusters to evade multiple plasma blasts. Her officers improvised, ramming enemy ships, giving other ships time to fire.

By the time they dealt with the majority of the frigates, their ships were lightly damaged. While the heaviest Covenant ship received repairs, the other two finally rejoined the fight. The frigates bought them time to close the distance and once again it was a run-and-gun fight for the UNSC ships. Most of the UNSC ships lacked turrets for close-range ship-to-ship engagements while the heavier Covenant ships were equipped with similar weaponry. _I'm Alone_, _Batavia_, and _Determined Guardian _all received hits in the opening damage. At one point, Captain Kelly purposefully steered _Batavia _broadside of _I'm Alone _and took a salvo from a _CSS_-battlecruiser's plasma turrets. MAC blasts, plasma torpedoes, SHIVA nuclear warheads, Hornet mines, energy beams, and hordes of starfights clashed. What was left of the Covenant defense fleet was a burning field of wreckage. But with _Determined Guardian _and _Batavia_ out of the fight, Vivian found herself for the first time in her career unsure if they could come out of this one alive.

She could see similar expressions in the faces of her bridge officers. Each one took a brief moment to glance back at her, trying to find courage in her posture, requiring affirmation the commanding officer knew how to get them out of this one. Vivian didn't know what kind of expression she wore but she hoped it gave them what they needed.

"Captain, both MAC's are at full charge. Waiting on your go," Lieutenant Bassot said.

"Hold weapons," Vivian said and turned her gaze towards Decatur. The AI projection was standing with his flintlock pistol drawn in his right hand and his saber held in the other. His shoulders were hunched as if he were waiting for an enemy to attack. "Decatur, scan that ship for its weakest points. Some of the damage we caused earlier might give us an advantage."

The AI flickered.

"Ma'am, aside from the prow, the weakest section of the ship would be its center, where amidships and the stern meet. However, none of our weapon systems will be able to hit it from this angle. Our damage from earlier has weakened its hull integrity by twenty-seven percent and appeared one of the ship's engines is heavily damaged; it can proceed only half speed and will be unable to perform pinpoint turns."

"It's slower than us," Vivian said. "But it's more heavily armed than us. We could try to get above it or below it, but the amount of plasma it could throw at us would negate our speed advantage. Update on emergency thrusters."

"One emergency thruster left, ma'am: starboard side, stern section," Decatur reported.

"Ma'am, one of the enemy frigates is supporting the main ship," Tsang reported. "It's above our degree plane right now to cover it."

Vivian examined the projection on the large tactical display on the port side of the bridge. The enemy frigate was over the Covenant supercarrier and was slowing to match its speed. Decatur performed another scan and found that its repairs were unfinished as well. It moved sluggishly with damaged engines. With the frigate present, Vivian knew if they tried to advance to an upper plaine the frigate could take them under fire. Again, she found her movements limited and if they couldn't maneuver, she knew the _I'm Alone _would be destroyed.

She looked ahead at the ships and then back at the display screen. When she looked at the tactical display on the starboard side, she saw a bird's eye view of the system. _Batavia _was still withdrawing to the outer edge and _Determined Guardian _was trying to catch up. _Lion's Den _was repositioning in the debris field and _River Styx _was keeping a low profile just outside the planet's gravity well. _Best of the Best_, still to the far starboard of the _I'm Alone_, was just completing a turn and heading towards the enemy station. The readouts beside it indicated its MAC gun was eighty percent charged and its hull integrity was high even after the ramming action.

"Lieutenant Koroma, establish a comm link with _Best of the Best_, ASAP."

"Aye, Captain. You're green."

"_Best of the Best_, _I'm Alone. _I have visual contact with one _CAR_-class frigate. Confirm you have it on scan, over."

"_I'm Alone_, _Best of the Best_. Confirm, we have an enemy ship on scans. Adjust trajectory. We have visual on it," Captain Slater responded in his gravel tone. "MAC's guns almost good to go."

"Negative on MAC. Wait for my command to fire. Sending coordinates for another ramming attack. Adjust elevation above its plane and come down on it from above. Hit the forward section to force it down."

There was silence from the other end of the comms for a few moments. Sweat trickled down Vivian's brow and temples.

"We're on it, _I'm Alone_."

"Roger. Koroma, get me _River Styx_."

"Good to go, Captain."

"_River Styx, I'm Alone._"

"_River Styx_ here, send your traffic. Over."

"Arm one Shiva-class nuclear missile and launch at these coordinates only upon my command. Fall into formation with _I'm Alone _behind us and follow my wake." Vivian's fingers danced across the keyboard and sent the data along. She heard Captain Rundstrum chuckle a little.

"Audacious Captain," said the ONI officer. Vivian frowned and shook her head.

"Just do it," Vivian growled.

"_River Styx _copies."

Vivian inhaled deeply and looked ahead. Both Covenant ships were steadily closing in on her.

"Keep holding weapons, Bassot. Sosa, reduce speed, hold course. Decatur, prime the emergency thruster, keep me updated on their weapons range."

"Of course, ma'am. One-hundred seventeen seconds until we are in enemy's range."

Vivian looked at the starboard side tactical display again. _Best of the Best _was already on a much higher elevation and was beginning to turn downwards towards the Covenant frigate. Weapon systems on both enemy ships were beginning to flare.

"Everybody ready at their stations, monitor your data, get ready to execute a high-speed turn," Vivian said, then hit the engine room intercom. "Lieutenant Commander Burgess, I need you to funnel all available power to the reactors. Anything but essential systems and the MAC's. I don't care if you need to sap some of the point-defense blocks. Get as much energy as you can."

"Aye, Captain!" came the reply.

"Sosa, I'm sending you maneuver coordinates. On my command you'll put the _I'm Alone _into full ahead, as _fast _as this ship can go. I'll fire the stern-mounted emergency thruster and we'll swing the ship around."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Weapons, hold for my command."

"Aye!"

"Decatur, put a time display on my station."

"Of course, ma'am."

Vivian watched the numbers count down. Ninety seconds, eighty seconds, seventy, sixty, fifty. Ahead, the supercarrier's weapons were flaring brighter, the plasma glowing white-hot. Above, the frigate was taking no evasive maneuvers; like the supercarrier, it was focusing on the bait. She looked back down at the screen; twenty seconds, ten seconds, five.

"We're in enemy weapon's range!" Decatur cried.

"Sosa, hit it!" Vivian ordered. The _I'm Alone _lurched towards the enemy ships. So many Covenant weapons fired it looked like multiple waves of plasma were barreling towards them. Vivian slammed her fist on the final emergency thruster key. There was a tremendous _bang _which made the ship shudder and the hull vibrate. _I'm Alone's _stern swung to port, causing the bow to swing to starboard. Throngs of plasma crackled right by the bow, scorching some of the glass. Moments later, the ship found itself facing the supercarrier amidships at nearly point-blank range for the MAC's. "Cut engines!"

_I'm Alone's _shuddering ceased but her momentum carried it on for some distance. For a moment, Vivian considered reactivating the engines to maximize the damage from a collision but the _I'm Alone_ eventually began slowing. Above, she watched _Best of the Best _descend at full speed on the frigate; it's elongated prow smashed into the top of the frigate's bow. The impact forced the smaller vessel downwards.

Vivian stood up. "_Best of the Best_, give them everything you've got!" At point-blank range, the destroyer fired its MAC. The shell did not explode and instead plummeted through the frigate and smashed into the top of the supercarrier. Archer missiles swarmed out of the pods and began hitting both the frigate and the larger Covenant ship. "_Best of the Best_, clear off, now!"

The destroyer cut its engines, disconnecting from the wrecked bow of the frigate. After righting itself, Slater fired one of his emergency thrusters, reactivated the engines, and sped his ship away. Meanwhile, the frigate was unable to correct its downward velocity and the ship collided with the Covenant supercarrier. Armor plating buckled and the smaller ship's bow began to crumple against the heavier ship's hull. Fires broke out and secondary explosions appeared over the hull.

Vivian pointed at the enemy supercarrier. "Bassot, fire the MAC's!"

"Firing, shot!" he cried. One after the other, the four MAC rounds cut into the supercarrier amidships. Each one caused successive damage, widening the jagged hole appearing in its hull. Above, the frigate was falling apart and finally its engines detonated. A blinding white-purple flash enveloped the vessel and when the shockwave faded only its burning wreckage remained. Across the top of the supercarrier, huge chunks of its armor plating were gone. Pieces of the frigate's hull continued to collide with it and jam into the plate.

"Sosa, sending coordinates, take us over it," Vivian ordered. "_River Styx_, sending firing coordinates. I've left a big fucking hole in the side of that ship. Fire the Shiva into it on my command."

"Roger, waiting for your go ahead."

The dying ship disappeared underneath the _I'm Alone. _Vivian sat back in her chair, her trembling hands gripping the arm rests. Everyone continued to monitor their stations but she could see the sweat on their temples in the lowlight of the bridge and hearing their ragged, relieved breathing. Vivian looked at the starboard side tactical display and watched the blue projection of the _I'm Alone _draw farther away from the lingering red outline of the battlecruiser. Once they were away, she finally breathed.

"_River Styx_, fire," she said tiredly. After running a hand over her face, she turned to Decatur. The AI was smiling at her pleasantly and after a moment she found herself able to return the expression. "Activate stern cameras, please," she said.

A new window appeared on her screen. For a few moments, nothing happened. _River Styx _was already far away from the enemy ships. Then, there was a bright flash inside the enemy battlecruiser. It shuddered, its armor plating began to ripple, and then a plasma fireball engulfed the center. When the fireball finally disappeared, the midsection of the ship was nothing but dust and debris. The stern's engines began to detonate and the bow began to burn up as it tumbled away. There was nothing left of the frigate.

Everyone on the bridge, save for Sosa and a few others, jumped to their feet, pumped their fists into the air, and cheered. Vivian, more relieved than excited, allowed them to exalt in their victory for only a few moments. "Settle down," she said, "back to your stations. We're not finished here yet. There's a perfectly defenseless shipyard that needs to be destroyed."

"Aye, Captain!" everyone shouted.

"_Best of the Best_, that was some damn fine flying," she said through the comms. A window opened up on the port side tactical display. Captain Slater appeared, strong-jawed and square-faced. Despite his stern gaze he offered a satisfied grin.

"Same to you, _I'm Alone_."

Another picture appeared and soon the blonde-haired head of Rundstrum appeared.

"Fine flying but as per usual, ONI steals the show with a stylish killshot," he bragged. After chuckling to himself, which caused Slater to roll his eyes, he smiled into the camera. "Well done, Captain Waters. I think somebody's going to be in for a big shiny medal, or even a promotion, at this rate. Can you see the posters at the Navy recruiting depots?" He swept his arm from side to side. "The Navy's new poster girl, Vivian Waters, an officer who can turn defeat into victory! I think enlistment numbers are going to explode right through the roof. Maybe they'll make a movie and—"

"Are you finished, Captain Rundstrum?" Vivian asked flatly.

"I had a few more but I'll save them for the cocktail party, I suppose," he said. His tone shifted and he offered a resolute nod. "That was one hell of a maneuver, Captain. Damned good flying."

"Thank you," Vivian said, hesitated, then lifted an eyebrow and grinned. "The UNSC Navy _appreciates _ONI's assistance in this operation."

"Ooh, you shouldn't say things you don't mean," Rundstrum replied and then cut the video link. Vivian looked at Slater who shook his head.

"ONI lapdog," he muttered.

"_River Styx _is still on the comm link," Vivian reminded him. Slater snorted.

"I know," he grunted and cut his own video link.

Vivian sat back down and began typing on her terminal.

"We're attacking the shipyard. Comms, get me on the battlegroup channel. Tsang, draft coordinates for line formation."

"Go ahead, ma'am."

"All available ships proceed to coordinates, form up for shipyard assault."

It wasn't long before _Lion's Den_ and _Best of the Best _fell in with the _I'm Alone. Batavia _and _Determined Guardian _were both still holding off to conduct what repairs they could perform. Vivian ordered all starfighters and attack craft to disengage from their current targets to attack the shipyards. The Covenant starfighter threat was diminished and could be dealt with by the ships' point-defense systems. Vivian watched as large formations of starfighters began flying towards the shipyards. Explosions began to blossom all over the anchorages. Connecting rods, repair machinery, and bridge links began to break apart. Missiles and rockets tore into the central space station. One after the other, the formations peeled away after exhausting their ordinance and began returning to rearm. Once the three ships were in range and the fighters were clear, Vivian ordered the ships to fire at will. MAC rounds tore chunks out of the space station and the shipyards began to explode. What few _CAR_-class frigates remained in the orbital yards were destroyed; secondary explosions rocked their hulls and chunks of the plating tore away. Some collided with other parts of the anchorage and with the station itself. The UNSC ships did not stop firing until the entire yard was nothing but twisted, burned metal. Punctuating the attack, the space station exploded.

Before the cheering began again, Vivian ordered Tsang to scan the system.

"Ma'am, I'm detecting a surface element on the planet below. Escape pods and dropships evacuating from the space station are heading planetside."

"Should we send the Marines in?" Commander Solak asked. "Our targets were the ships and the repair station. Our mission is complete. The ground element is helpless without them. We can just leave them there."

"Our mission is to kill the Covenant," Vivian said sharply. "And the war won't be won until we kill them all. It'd be unwise to pass up unsupported targets of opportunity like that and who's to say when a reinforcing Covenant fleet will arrive and pick them up? Those troops could be taken to another battlefront and could end up killing a lot of humans."

She took a breath. "Monitor your stations. Keep the Longswords rearmed and patrolling the system. I don't want us to be surprised by a counterattack. Solak, you have the bridge. I'm going to check on the wounded."

"Aye, Captain."

Vivian left the bridge, descended the elevator to Zero Deck, and passed through the halls. Some sections were unscathed but in others hull paneling was broken or disrupted. Exposed cables sparked and some lights were not operating. Engineers and damage controlmen worked diligently to repair it all. The barracks was hard hit and many of the cabins suffered from electrical fires. Medical personnel were still evacuating some of the wounded who had second and third degree burns on their hands, arms, and faces. She found two Hospitalmen and Gunnery Sergeant Frost helping one man out of a badly hit room. Immediately she rushed over and began to assist, taking up the Marine's left leg.

"Put him on the stretcher," one of the Hospitalmen said. "Easy, easy."

Burn cream already coated the man's face and biofoam was injected into deeper wounds. He was breathing steadily but was shaking. Once the wounded Marine was placed on the litter, Vivian took up the back right rung while Frost took the one in front. "One, two, three, lift!"

Together, they carried the wounded Marine across Zero Deck to the medical bay. Frost looked over his shoulder as they jogged along.

"Captain, are we clear? Did we win?"

"Yeah, the Covenant fleet in this system is burning," Vivian said. "We've got enemy troops heading planetside, though."

Frost didn't say anything. They passed through one of the entrances to the medical bay. Vivian's eardrums were barraged by an orchestra of screaming wounded men and women. The first bay was filled to capacity by personnel with burns from plasma or electrical fires. Others had deep shrapnel wounds from pieces of the hull that received heavy damage and sliced into the interior halls. Others had broken or missing limbs. Passing throngs of medical teams, they went into the next bay and took the litter into one of the chambers. They were greeted by Jasmine, who's white coat had black and red bloodstains on it.

"No, no, no!" she said, "take him to surgery immediately!"

Two other Hospitalmen took over for Frost and Vivian. The pair caught their breath in front of the chief doctor, who continued to order personnel around. When Vivian managed to meet her gaze, all Jasmine could do was shake her head. Looking around, Vivian saw her personnel in various states of agony. People with burns, gashes, and breaks, bravely taking the anguish of their wounds. Some screamed, others shed tears, and more than a few called out for comrades, mothers, or for their god.

She clenched her fists, narrowed her gaze, and grimaced.

"I don't think the Captain's making the right call," Moser said at the end of the Pelican's troop compartment.

"Worst thing we can do is go out there when we're all fucking emotional," Knight said, "we gotta go in clear-headed otherwise more Marines are going to get killed."

"She wouldn't send us if she thought it was a bad move," Grant offered.

"Oh really? You sure about that, mate?" Maddox grumbled. "Tell you what, she's either riding high or she's not thinking straight."

"Hey, _hey_!" Frost said from the front of the Pelican. "Last time I checked, you're Marines, not a fucking bunch of whining little babies. Whatever the Captain points out, we kill, understand? Get aggressive, Marines."

"You wouldn't mind if Steele moaned like that," Moser complained. Frost looked at him sharply.

"Yeah, you always laugh when he does it," Grant added.

"From him I can deal with it but not the rest of you, so unless you're going to talk like Marines _shut your fucking mouths_, check?"

"Check," everyone replied glumly.

Frost checked his MA5B over again just as the Pelican broke into the planet's atmosphere. Maddox went over the radio one last time before drawing his M7. Grant and Moser were both armed with MA5B's with forty millimeter grenade launchers attached in lieu of a flashlight. Langley was equipped with a lighter MA5C, while Bishop and Knight carried BR55's. The former had his M90 slung over his shoulder while the latter's M52B was augmented with weight servos to carry his M41 launcher.

"Thirty seconds!" Jasper called from the cockpit.

"Thirty seconds!" everyone shouted, gesturing with an inch of space between their thumb and forefingers. As the Pelican leveled out, Frost stood up and went into the cockpit. Jasper and Pajari were both focused on their controls. Below, the ashen planet proved not to be entirely desolate. Ahead, Covenant dropships were still hovering above the ruins of a half-glassed city. Concrete ruins protruded against the cloudy sky and piles of rubble filled the streets. Overhead, Longswords swooped in and began firing their cannons. Phantoms began exploding in midair or catching fire as they descended to the earth. Then, three formations of Shortsword bombers followed and carpet bombed the Covenant drop zone. Many buildings collapsed and plumes of concrete dust flew skyward.

Frost returned to his seat, got back into his harness, and looked at his squad.

"Get tactical, Marines."

He looked at the rear of the Pelican. Isha, the crew chief, held up three fingers and then lowered each one. He hit the button on the rear hatch, light flooded in, and the Marines stood up.

"Go, go, go!"

The squad rushed out of the Pelican. As the dropship ascended, they turned and began charging through the outskirts of the city. The entire 89th MEU was dropping in force; hordes of Marines ran together in waving battle lines like from wars long past. Warthogs and Scorpion tanks rolled out of Albatrosses, turned, and began firing. Demoralized and wounded Covenant were everywhere. Elites with missing limbs struggled to find weapons, Grunts wandered aimlessly, and Jackals were still trying to form up. Gunfire rippled along their lines and swathes of the Covenant were cut down.

As they advanced deeper into the ruins, plasma fire began to come at them from all directions. Marines began falling, riddled by blue and green plasma bolts. Others exploded into clouds of pink missed or twitched and fellow over as an accurate, crystalline needle round struck them in the head. Roiling blue plasma grenades were flung over piles of rubble and hastily erected purple barricades. Those who didn't scatter in time or found the grenade stuck to their armor disappeared in a flash of blue-white plasma.

Frost and his squad fell in behind a Scorpion. As the machine gunner rattled away at soft targets to their front, the main cannon destroyed clots of any troops embedding themselves in the rubble. Each time it fired, Frost's ears rang and the blowback from the gun was so intense he nearly lost his footing. A trio of Skirmishers sprinted over the rubble on the left side of the street to try to close in for hand to hand combat, but he leveled his MA5B and squeezed off half a magazine. Just as they fell, Grunts clambered to the top and began firing plasma pistols.

"Contact left, contact left!" Frost shouted. The entire squad turned and opened fire. "Grant, forty-mike-mike!"

Grant loaded a shell into his grenade launcher and squeezed the trigger. A plume of smoke went up and several Grunts were thrown back by the blast.

"Contact right, anti-tank!" Bishop shouted. Frost whirled around. Five Grunts were lining up their sights on the Scorpion. MA5 and BR55 bursts cut them down. The final one to fall managed to fire as it did; instead of hitting the tank, the green burst of plasma bounced off the grenade and flew into a squad of Marines right behind Frost's. Those who weren't vaporized in the blast tumbled away with plasma burns. Screaming, they fell into the arms of corpsmen and other comrades.

Frost turned his attention forward again, his pace steady with the tank. Briefly, the Scorpion halted as another tank with supporting infantry came out of a side street on the right and took the lead. Just as they began moving again, more plasma fire erupted from alleys, side streets, rubble piles, and even the second and third story windows of the ruins. As a trio of men were wounded by rapid-fire plasma from the left, Frost stopped to locate the turret. A Grunt operating a plasma turret was in the open window of a bridge between two buildings.

"Knight!" he shouted. When he arrived and crouched, Frost pointed at the window with the flat of his hand. "Turret, second floor!"

Knight slung his BR55 over his shoulder, loaded his M41, and aimed. Frost tapped him on the shoulder. "Backblast clear, fire!"

With a _whump_, the rocket whizzed through the air and smashed into the window. When the dust settled, the turret was gone. "Good hits, keep moving." Frost turned back to the rest of the company; many squads were keeping beside or behind the tanks while others flanked through the buildings to clear them. "Keep moving!" he shouted, waving his arm. "Keep moving!"

"Enemy tank, front!"

The cry send shivers up Frost's spine. He looked past the leading Scorpion and saw a Wraith glide onto the street. Luckily, both Scorpions fired and were able to destroy it. But a second appeared and fired. One huge cloud of white-blue plasma hit the leading Scorpion directly. The gunner had his head torn off by the velocity. When the second plasma mortar fell on the Scorpion, the main turret erupted in flames and exploded off the main body. A moment later, the engine exploded. The hatch was thrown up and the drive tumbled out, on fire. Shrapnel from the exploding tank caught dozens of Marines behind it and they fell down screaming.

Before the Wraith could fire again, the second Scorpion halted, fired, and managed to knock it out. Frost, his squad, and more Marines pushed up. "Corpsmen up, corpsmen up!" Frost screamed. He slid onto his knees beside a wounded man, took out his first aid kit, and injected his wounds with the biofoam canister. By the time the corpsmen finally moved up under fire, he had spent the contents of his can.

"Frost!" Lieutenant Conroy called. "Take your squad up the left flank! Support the tanks!"

"Check!" Frost yelled. "On me, First Squad, we're moving up!"

Hugging the left side of the street, killing Covenant stragglers and wounded, and monitoring the windows, Frost and his Marines continued moving. Through an alley, Frost watched Warthogs tear down the next street over, their chainguns thundering away at targets.

A squad of Grunts appeared, led by an Elite. "Contact front!"

The squad dispersed among the rubble for cover and began firing. Gunfire cut down the Grunts but the Elite retreated before its shields broke. It ducked behind a column. Frost was reloading when it jumped back out and threw a grenade.

"Grenade!" several members of the squad shouted and scattered. Frost sprinted forward and looped around the left side of the column. As he did, the Elite swung its plasma rifle at him. He ducked low, drew his knife, darted forward when the alien tried to hit him again. As he did, he swiped his knife across its ankle. Roaring, the Elite collapsed onto its injured leg. Before it could recover, Frost jumped onto its back and plunged his KA-BAR knife into its neck several times. When he withdrew for the final time, the Elite slumped forward and gurgled its last. Just as he stood up, Frost felt something tackle him from behind. A squawking Skirmisher held his head down with one hand and began to hit him in the face with the other.

Another body ran into the Skirmisher and knocked it off Frost. When he looked up, he found Moser beating the alien's face in with the butt of his MA5B. Just another Skirmisher came sprinting towards him, Frost drew his M6C and emptied the entire magazine into it. It fell, dead, right beside Moser.

"Reloading," Frost grunted. "You good?"

"Good to go," Moser said, "You?"

"Green. On me," Frost ordered as he picked his MA5B back up. They went back to the column and crouched. The Scorpion was rolling forward and more infantry were drawing ahead. Ahead was a large pile of rubble that nearly blocked the road. The Scorpion stopped just in front of it while the leading Marines clawed their way on top. Just as they came over, rapid-fire plasma began slicing into them. Wounded Marines fell down the slope of rubble while others jumped back down. Others went prone, returned fire, and began lobbing fragmentation grenades over the rubble.

Frost's squad rushed up and began collecting the wounded men. Again, they began filling their wounds with biofoam and applying pressure dressings. Suddenly, pink rounds began flying from the upper windows of the half-destroyed church on the right side of the road. "We need to get those snipers," Frost said, "let's go Moser!"

The pair rushed across the road, stacked up next to the entry, and Frost peered in. He could see Jackals armed with Type-31 rifles leaping from the broken archways and edges of the blown up rooftop of the aged church. They would fire down at the Marines and then relocate to another spot. Frost ducked back out. "We've got three on the upper left, two on the right," he counted. "I'm going to break left and draw their fire. You pop them as they show themselves. Watch your field of fire."

"Check."

Frost inhaled sharply and dashed into the ruins. He took cover behind a column on the left side just as a series of pink needles peppered the opposite side. Then he heard the deep report of Moser's BR55; after two bursts, both Jackals fell from their perches. Needles began bombarding Moser's position and he took cover. Frost rushed out, turned, and began firing sweeping bursts up at the jackals. Screeching and squawking, they took cover and tried to return fire. But Moser again shot them down with his rifle. "Clear!" Moser shouted.

"Clear on motion trackers," Frost said, monitoring his blue HUD helmet attachment. He went back to Moser's position and looked out. The Marines were clear and pushing over the ruins. A Scorpion rolled over the main blocking position and began firing directly into Covenant positions. Warthog engines revved and came down a side street adjacent to the church, flanking the Covenant defense.

Frost turned to Moser to tell him to move out, but found he was walking into the church. Nothing was left of the pews, stained glass, or even the altar. At the very head though, there was the half-destroyed sculpture of many Saints. After hesitating briefly, Frost followed him into the church. He turned as he did, ensuring there were no more snipers above them. "Moser, you good?"

"People came here once for quiet or for prayer," he said as the noise of battle faded outside. "These are houses of peace, not a place where wars should be fought." He sighed sadly and looked over his shoulder. "Tell me we'll make it right one day."

"You know we will," Frost replied firmly. Moser suddenly took off his helmet, knelt, and clasped his hands together.

"I know you're not a man of faith, but would you join me just for a moment?"

"We still got Covvies to take care of out there," Frost said despite the slackening battle outside.

"Just for a moment. A little quiet never hurt anyone," Moser said without looking at him. Frost sighed, walked over, and knelt as well. Setting his MA5B to the side, he clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. At first, he felt silly and out of place. But when he breathed in deeply, he found he couldn't smell the arid concrete dust stench or cordite. Sounds of battle seemed eerily distant. Despite his rapidly beating heart, he felt strangely calm.

Needles hit the ground around him. Frost quickly rolled to the side, picked up his MA5B, and aimed. A single Jackal was rapidly firing its Type-31 at him. He aimed and squeezed off three short controlled bursts. Bullets thudded into the alien's chest and it fell to the floor.

"Fuck, that was close. You okay, Moser?" Frost asked, still aiming his weapon. "Moser?"

He looked to the side. Moser was lying on his back and clutching his throat. Blood was seeping through his fingers. "Moser!"

Frost shouldered his rifle and dug into his first aid kit. His biofoam canister was empty and all he had was a pressure dressing. He pried Moser's fingers away and a jet of blood poured out. "Aw fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Hang in there, Moser, you're going to get out of here man. Corpsman!" Frost screamed as he applied pressure to the dressing. Blood continued to come out and stain the dressing. Moser gurgled terribly; blood began to come out of his mouth. He reached up and clutched the collar of Frost's M52B body armor. "Hold on, Moser, I've got you. Help's coming." Frost activated the SQUADCOM. "This is One-One, I've got a man down in the church, get a corpsman and a little here, ASAP."

"Roger One-One, dispatching corpsman," Conroy replied.

"They're coming, man, they're coming, don't worry. You're gonna be fine. It's not that bad. Not bad at all, I've seen a lot worse." Frost smiled weakly. Moser's eyes were dimming, his actions were becoming sluggish, and he was gulping less and less. "Stay with me. Come on. _Come on_. You're going to be fine. _Corpsman! _Man down! I need a fucking corpsman!"

He looked back and saw the squad burst through the entrance. Everyone rushed over and began gathering around. The corpsman slid next to him.

"Move your hands," he ordered. Frost looked back down at Moser and saw he was still. His hand dropped from his collar and his eyes were blank. The corpsman began treating the wounded, looked Moser, checked his pulse, and sighed. "Sorry, Gunny."

"What do you mean sorry!?" Grant yelled. "Work on him! Do something!"

"He's gone, Lance Corporal," the corpsman said.

Everyone looked at one another, wide-eyed. Tears welled in the corners of Grant's eyes. Just as they began to run down his cheeks, he dropped his MA5B, keeled over, and hugged Moser's body. He buried his face into his chestplate and began to sob. As the corpsman prepared the litter, Frost sat back weakly and lowered his head. The squad hung their heads and wept.

* * *

**Words: **6,649

**Pages (Google Docs): **16

**Original Font: **Garamond

**Original Font Size: **12

**Original Line Spacing: **1.5

**Author's Note: **Well, I'm back! Apologies for being gone for all these months, progress on finishing _Marsh Silas: Inquisitor _took a lot longer than I thought. But now I'm back and I'll resume work on _I'm Alone: Exalt_. A few notes on this chapter: I originally thought to include the sequence Vivian thinks about in which they first start battling the Covenant ships. After some thought, I decided not to include this because the chase sequence would have just been too cumbersome to write; jumping in and out of slipspace, some quick fights, and steady damage is just too cumbersome for an entire chapter. I cut the earlier part of the battle to cut down on the overuse of phrases and terms as well and to focus on the highlight of the action than the full sequence. Basically, I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, but in all, I wanted to cut the cumbersome aspects of this writing.

I'll be back to posting at least one chapter a week. I'd really appreciate though if you could check out _Marsh Silas: Inquisitor_, I'm very proud of that story and I consider it my best to date. Also if you're interested, I have more original prose and poems going up on my DevianArt profile, **RadiationSoap**, as well as an edited, revamped version of the original _I'm Alone. _I'd love to hear your thoughts on it.

Alright, comment responses and I'm outta here!

**Comment Responses: **

**Qrs-jg: **Yep. I wanted some heavier tonnage ships for Vivian's battlegroup so they could not only engage in but also win in decisive ship to ship engagements. As we saw here, they won't always get out of the fight unscathed. And Decatur is a lot of fun to work; some chapters he's a real character and other times he's more of a functional aspect of the ship. I like that balance, it suits him, but his dialogue and chipper attitude are a lot of fun and we'll see more experience with him over the course of the story. Thanks!

**SaltySieger59: **Love your username, by the way. A very apt question. Yes, the course of the story will take the characters through the length of the war and will partake in some of the clashes that players have experienced in the game. However, they will have their own story and adventures within those timelines. However, they won't be close to the end of the war until the planned fourth installment of the story. But hey, you got anymore questions, feel free to ask and I'll fill you in. Thanks!


End file.
